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DRIFT 


•«    *  *  «  *  •. 

C,  I      c     t.'    c      „« 

c         >    <     e        •  • 


EILEEN 


DRIFT 


BY 

MARY  ALDIS 

AUTHOB   OF 
'PLATS   FOR   SMALL   STAGES,"    "FLASHLIGHTS,"    ETC. 


"For  Life's  helm  rocks  to  the  windward  and  lee. 
And  time  is  as  wind,  and  as  waves  are  we; 

And  song  is  as  foam  that  the  sea  winds  fret, 
Though  the  thought  at  its  heart  should  be  deep  as  the  sea.' 

ETCHINGS    BY 
PIERRE   NUYTTENS 


NEW  YORK 
DUFFIELD    &   COMPANY 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by  Maby  Aldis 


TO 

MY  SISTER 


ooo,con 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
Eileen Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


Eileen 98 

John  Templeton 126 

Helen 162 

Robert  Thorne 230 

Spencer  Crockett 280 

Margaret 334 


PART  I 


DRIFT 


CHAPTER  h 

MISS  EMMA  ENDICOTT  sat  up  very  straight,  knit- 
ted rapidly  and  looked  at  her  niece.  The  expression 
around  her  mouth  indicated  that  no  further  statement  of 
the  case  need  be  made ;  she  was  unalterably,  inexorably, 
and  completely  opposed. 

Nevertheless,  her  niece  went  on  talking,  the  slow 
cadences  of  her  young  voice  rising  and  falling  until  her 
aunt  gave  an  exasperated  sigh.  Eileen's  voice  was  one 
of  the  things  that  made  it  difficult  for  an  elderly  lady, 
outwardly  rigid  but  inwardly  soft,  to  hold  her  own. 
In  an  undulating,  wheedling,  altogether  illegitimate 
manner,  independent  of  the  words  it  spoke,  this  shame- 
less voice  assailed  and  beat  upon  her  unresisting  ears, 
crept  in  and  wound  itself  around  her  too  tender  heart, 
until,  struggling  more  and  more  feebly,  she  would  feel 
her  brave  show  of  resistance  .fade  to  a  spasmodic  flutter 
and  go  out. 

This  was,  of  course,  what  would  happen  in  the  pres- 
ent instance,  but  it  took  time,  more  time  than  usual. 
Aunt  and  niece  were  gentlewomen,  their  disagreements 
were  conducted  in  a  manner  befitting  gentlewomen  j  that 
is  to  say,  there  were  twists  and  turns  and  convolutions, 
all  meant  to  imply  the  deepest  mutual  concern  and 
deference.    These  courteous  disagreements  had  been  go- 

8 


DEIFT 

ing  on  ever  since  Eileen  could  only  coo  her  side  of  the 
argument,  yet  Aunt  Emma  still  wondered  why  she 
always  had  an  unsatisfied  feeling  at  the  end  of  them. 

The  silvery  voice  went  on:  "But,  Auntie,  dearest, 
they  live,  down  there.  Here,  we  only  trot^-*to  one  little 
thing  after  another. " 

The  girl  got  up  and  went  wandering  around  the 
room  while  her  aunt  watched  her.  Several  minutes 
passed.  The  clock  ticked,  the  fire  crackled,  and  Eileen 
walked.    It  was  very  depressing. 

Miss  Emma  Endicott  had  just  taken  a  resolve  to 
say  nothing  more  whatsoever,  nevertheless  she  found 
herself  casting  about  in  her  mind  for  some  further 
words  to  express  her  dissatisfaction.  She  picked  up  her 
lament. 

"Well,  if  you've  made  up  your  mind,  I  suppose 
there 's  nothing  more  to  be  done,  but  it's  so  queer,  and 
you've  got  so  many  engagements  ahead!  What  in  the 
world  will  all  those  people  say,  and  what  are  you  going 
to  say  to  them?"  She  peered  up  sideways  at  her  un- 
accountable niece,  who  now  came  and  stood  beside  her  to 
add  the  allure  of  caressing  hands.  The  last  question  was 
unanswerable,  she  was  sure  of  it. 

"Why  not  the  truth?"  Eileen  returned,  "That  is 
always  simple.  I'll  write  the  politest  kinds  of  notes. 
'Dear  Mrs.  Desborough:  I  can't  come  to  dine  with  you 
on  the  twenty-ninth  of  the  month  after  next,  because 
I've  renounced  the  devil  and  all  his  works.'  "  Aunt 
Emma's  expression  was  provocative:  "That  won't  do? 
Well,  then,  I'll  leave  out  the  devil  and  just  say  I'm 
going  to  live  at  Helena  House  to  try  to  get  acquainted 
with  my  neighbours  on  the  East  Side,  because  I  think 
I'll  like  them  better  than  my  neighbours  on  the  West." 

Aunt  Emma  Endicott  picked  up  the  evening  paper. 
"I  should  think  you  would  be  willing  to  discuss  a  seri- 
ous subject  seriously,"  she  said. 

4 


DRIFT 

"Oh,  Auntie  darling !"  Eileen  was  on  her  knees, 
her  arms  about  the  rigid  shoulders  of  the  protesting 
lady.  "  Please,  please  try  to  understand  me.  I  think 
it  would  be  tremendously  interesting  and  exciting  to 
go  to  Helena  House — lots  more  exciting  than  dashing 
about  the  way  I'm  doing  now.  I'm  really  serious  about 
it;  I  want  to  see  what  they  do,  how  they  live  down 
there.  You  read  such  curious  things  in  the  newspapers ; 
I  've  always  wondered  if  they  really  happened.  I  'd  like 
to  find  out.  I  know  it's  not  the  'thing,'  really,  to  go 
to  a  settlement  unless  you've  been  out  two  years,  or  are 
disappointed  in  love.  Still,  I  do  want  to  go,  I  really 
do.  I  asked  them  the  other  night  if  they'd  take  me  in. 
The  'residents'  seemed  so  surprised.  They  call  them 
residents,  you  know — it  sounds  so  impressive.  I  do  want 
to  be  a  'resident.'  " 

"Well,  I  wish  I  had  known  you  were  going  to  be 
so  queer  before  I  built  on  the  new  room!  We've  only 
used  it  twice — for  the  Tea  and  the  Musicale!  What 
good  will  it  be  now,  I'd  like  to  know?  It  will  just  have 
to  be  kept  clean  and  taken  care  of  for  nothing."  Aunt 
Emma's  voice  had  the  accent  of  one  overcome  but  un- 
convinced. A  vision  of  superintending  careless  house- 
maids in  the  care  of  the  new  room  an  indefinite 
number  of  futile  years  swept  over  her.  She  had  an  in- 
clination to  shed  tears.  Eileen  gave  a  little  exclama- 
tion. 

The  new  room,  a;  lofty  and  beautiful  apartment 
opening  from  the  library,  was  the  pride  and  joy  of 
Aunt  Emma's  heart.  Talked  of  at  intervals  when 
Eileen  had  come  home  from  boarding-school  on  vaca- 
tions, the  room,  after  much  consultation  with  architects 
and  decorators,  had  recently  become  an  actuality. 
Eileen  had  deplored  the  building  of  this  addition,  feel- 
ing it  as  a  kind  of  mortgage  upon  herself  to  which  she 
was  unwilling  to  subscribe,  but  the  present  seemed  no 

6 


DRIFT 

time  to  remind  the  aggrieved  lady  tha?  she  had  de- 
murred. 

"Now,  Auntie,  listen !"  she  said.  "I  can't  seem  to 
make  you  understand  why  I  want  to  go  to  Helena 
House,  but  I  do.  I've  had  the  idea  a  long  time:  ever 
since  Mrs.  Tucker  and  Helen  took  me  there  that  nighx 
and  I  heard  Mr.  Martin  and  that  queer  socialist  editor 
talk.  I  don't  think  I  shall  do  anybody  any  good,  help 
them  along,  I  mean — I  couldn't,  except  by  presents, 
and  they  say  that's  frowned  on.  I've  explained  it  all 
to  Mr.  Martin.    I  just  want  to  find  out." 

"But  you'll  be  so  uncomfortable !"  Aunt  Emma  put 
in.    "You  say  Sophie  can't  go  with  you?" 

"Fancy  a  lady's-maid  in  a  settlement!"  Eileen 
laughed,  "and  fancy  Sophie's  expression!  IVe  got  a 
nice  room;  the  walls  are  calcimined  grey-green  and 
there  are  soft  green  curtains  to  match  with  matting  on 
the  floor.  'AH  the  comforts  of  home,'  including  Botti- 
celli's 'Spring'.    You  must  come  and  see  it." 

"But  it's  all  so  queer!  your  going,  I  mean,  people 
will  think  you  aren't  happy  here." 

•'Yes,  I  daresay  they'll  conclude  that  you  beat  me, 
or  drove  me  out  of  the  house,  or  something  like  that. 
Shall  I  explain  in  my  notes  that  you  haven't — that  I'm 
going  of  my  own  free  will  and  accord?" 

Aunt  Emma  Endicott.  sighed.  "I  am  deeply  trou- 
bled," she  said.  "It  is  not,  I  am  sure,  what  your  dear 
mother  would  have  wished.  It  makes  me  feel  that  I 
am  not  fulfilling  my  trust." 

The  girl  frowned.  "Wouldn't  she  have  wanted  me  to 
have  experience?"  she  asked,  but  Aunt  Emma  shook 
her  head. 

"Not  that  kind,  no,  certainly  not  that  kind."  She 
looked  Eileen  over.  "You  are  just  like  your  father, 
just  exactly  like  him.  He  was  always  doing  unexpected 
things,  nobody  could  ever  tell  what  made  him." 

6 


DRIFT 

Eileen  was  familiar  with  the  observation,  as  familiar 
as  with  the  " trust' '  that  was  not  being  fulfilled.  They 
were  resorted  to  when  her  own  words  or  actions  failed 
to  fit  in  with  the  scheme  of  things  as  Aunt  Emma  saw 
them.  She  knew  little  of  her  father,  but  the  way  in 
which  her  likeness  to  him  was  pointed  out  had  the  result 
of  causing  her  to  think  of  him  as  a  splendid  and  trium- 
phant rebel,  striding  over  and  beyond  all  the  objections 
and  protests  that  society  or  tearful  relatives  put  in  his 
way.  If  Aunt  Emma  thought  to  reduce  her  to  submis- 
sion by  remarks  upon  the  likeness,  she  was  mistaken; 
nothing  had  a  more  stimulating  effect  upon  Eileen's 
determination. 

The  girl  drooped,  leaning  upon  the  mantelpiece, 
watching  the  fire.  She  wondered  why  she  had  been  so 
vehement  when  she  didn't  really  want  to  go,  or  at  least 
not  as  much  as  her  words  had  indicated.  It  would  be 
pleasant,  however,  to  see  a  lot  of  odd,  interesting  people 
and  hear  them  talk.  She  looked  at  Aunt  Emma  as 
she  sat  by  the  lamp  trying  to  read  but  winking  a  little, 
and  a  pang  swept  over  her.  She  wished  her  aunt  would 
understand,  but  Aunt  Emma  never  did  understand.  It 
was  becoming  increasingly  wearisome,  explaining. 

Eileen  Picardy  was  nineteen  years  of  age.  For  just 
that  space  of  time  she  had  desired  something  different 
from  whatever  she  had ;  her  restless,  oblique  eyes,  under 
their  dark  brows,  were  constantly  searching  for  some- 
thing out  of  reach. 

Eileen's  eyes  were  as  hard  to  deal  with  as  her  voice. 
They  were  so  dark  that  the  pupils  were  almost  undis- 
cernible.  When  they  were  swift,  Aunt  Emma  was  dis- 
mayed, when  they  grew  soft  and  pleading,  what  could 
a  poor  lady  do?  Her  own  would  become  tender  and 
yielding  in  spite  of  herself.  Ordinarily,  the  eyes  of 
Miss  Emma  Endicott  wore  a  serene  expression,  as  if 

7 


DEIPT 

they  looked  out  upon  a  kindly  and  satisfying  world; 
her  carefully  waved  hair  denoted  precision  and  con- 
tentment of  character,  and  the  ample  folds  of  her 
black  silk  dress,  spotted  with  white,  were  soft  to  touch. 
Eileen  thought  it  a  very  ugly  dress,  but  it  did  not  really 
matter  in  that  room. 

In  a  few  moments  the  gentle  lady  laid  her  paper 
down,  sighed,  and  looked  around  at  the  family  portraits 
of  other  Endicotts  who  had  pursued  their  lives,  ap- 
parently content,  without  resorting  to  settlements.  She 
seemed  to  be  asking  their  support  in  her  present  opposi- 
tion to  the  project  of  their  descendant,  but  they  only 
smiled  benignly  from  their  places  against  the  dark  wall 
and  gave  no  comfort. 

The  surroundings  in  which  aunt  and  niece,  grand-aunt 
and  niece,  to  be  accurate,  expressed  their  differing  ideas 
gave  reason  for  the  conservatism  of  Miss  Endicott's 
point  of  view.  The  large  room  was  panelled  in  walnut, 
with  high  bookcases  on  three  sides.  On  the  fourth,  a 
marble  fireplace  was  flanked  by  two  double  French 
windows  hung  with  red  brocade  curtains  tied  back  with 
gold  cord.  Eileen  had  often  speculated  upon  what  could 
be  done  to  embellish  this  apartment,  but  the  room  had 
powers  of  resistance  all  its  own.  It  set  itself  immovably 
against  the  decorations  of  a  newer  age.  The  contents  con- 
sisted of  the  refined,  if  indiscriminate  gatherings  of  a 
blameless  lifetime,  superimposed  upon  the  similar  gather- 
ings of  several  other  lifetimes,  equally  blameless.  Such 
surroundings  were  not  easily  susceptible  to  a  magic 
touch.  They  had  better  be  left  to  their  own  comfortable 
worthiness. 

Eileen's  mother,  a  gentle,  unassertive  creature,  had 
died  in  giving  her  birth,  after  two  years  of  unhappy 
married  life.  Her  father,  suffering  from  his  loss  and 
bitter  self-accusation,  had  confided  the  child  to  the  only 
near  relative  the  dead  woman  had,  "Aunt  Emma," 

8 


DRIFT 

who  had  performed  the  offices  of  a  mother  to  her  for 
some  years  before  her  marriage.  Aunt  Emma,  or  to 
give  her  her  proper  name,  Miss  Emma  Endicott,  had 
sorrowed  helplessly  with  her  niece,  Eileen's  mother, 
during  the  two  years  of  her  troubled  married  life;  de- 
veloping a  conviction  that  all  men  were  inexplicably 
wicked  and  cruel.  She  was  led  to  believe  this  from  the 
fact  that  her  niece  cried,  constantly,  whereas,  before 
her  marriage  she  had  been  a  simple  and  joyous  person. 
She  had  at  first  been  inclined  to  express  this  view,  but 
the  gentle,  weeping,  young  wife  would  not  allow  it.  Her 
trouble  was  all  her  own  fault,  she  said. 

When  Herbert  Picardy  brought  his  child  for  Aunt 
Emma  to  take  care  of,  she  seemed  to  have  no  choice  other 
than  to  accept  the  charge  and  wonder  still  more  at  the 
ways  of  men.  He  had  made  what  arrangements  he 
could,  and  soon  after  had  gone  away  to  far-off  lands, 
where,  some  five  years  later,  he  died,  leaving  a  fortune 
to  the  little  girl  whom  Aunt  Emma  befriended.  Strange 
tales  had  come  from  time  to  time  of  his  career  in  "Bio," 
— a  Brazilian  wife,  or  someone  who  had  stood  to  him 
in  that  relation,  Aunt  Emma  never  wanted  to  enquire 
too  closely.  He  wrote  regularly  to  the  child,  peculiar 
letters  that  Aunt  Emma  was  not  sure  she  ought  to 
read  aloud. 

Eileen  kept  her  father's  letters  in  a  box  in  her  own 
bureau.  When  she  learned  to  read,  she  would  take 
them  out  and  try  to  discover  from  their  phrases  more 
of  her  father  than  Aunt  Emma  could  tell  her.  They  gave 
her  nothing  of  his  life,  only  expressions  of  deep  affection 
and  the  hope  of  sometime  seeing  her  again,  interspersed 
with  observations  upon  life  and  its  mysteries,  often 
penetrating,  sometimes  bitter,  all  odd  when  addressed  to 
a  little  girl  of  five.  It  was  as  if  he  expected  his  letters 
to  be  kept  and  read  in  after  years;  as  if  he  sought  to 
give  to  the  child  he  had  hardly  seen,  something  of  his 

9 


DRIFT 

own  melancholy  conclusions.  He  may  have  felt  these 
letters  to  represent  all  he  could  give  to  the  daughter  he 
had  left  to  the  care  of  others.  Eileen  would,  even  now, 
take  out  the  box  and  wonder  about  the  brilliant,  un- 
happy man  who  had  been  her  father. 

Miss  Emma  Endicott  was  a  curious  guardian  for  the 
young  child  thus  confided  to  her  care  in  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  eighty.  By  accident  she  lived  in  New  York — 
in  birth,  manners,  and  instinct  she  was  of  New  England. 
She  had  been  brought  up  to  respect  the  Bible  and  the 
marriage  relation,  and  she  continued  to  do  both.  Un- 
affected and  undismayed  by  all  the  turbulent  currents 
around  her,  her  placid  life  flowed  on  in  ancient  grooves. 

Eileen's  childhood  was  spent  at  the  old  homestead 
among  the  Connecticut  hills.  She  was  brought  up  as 
Aunt  Emma  herself  had  been.  For  two  hours  a  day 
she  was  obliged  to  sit  on  a  stool  without  a  back  and 
do  patch-work,  with  pieces  kept  fro.m  print  dresses 
Aunt  Emma  had  worn  when  she  was  young.  On  Sun- 
days she  learned  the  collect  and  said  the  catechism. 
Every  evening  Aunt  Emma  read  aloud  to  her  the  works 
of  Walter  Scott.  One  day  in  each  week,  other  nice 
children,  carefully  brought  up,  were  invited  to  spend 
the  afternoon  and  stay  to  tea.  Eileen  performed  her 
tasks  with  docility  and  treated  her  guests  politely.  She 
was  what  is  called  a  good  child.  One  part  of  Sunday 
she  liked,  the  hour  after  dinner,  when  Aunt  Emma 
showed  her  Dore's  illustrations  of  Paradise  and  Inferno. 
That  was  something  her  soul  could  feast  on.  For  the 
rest  of  the  week  she  was  obliged  to  content  herself 
with  mild  story  books  and  such  works  as  she  could  ex- 
tract from  unforbidden  portions  of  the  shelves.  She 
was  a  very  unhappy  child  but  no  one  thought  about 
it. 

In  due  time  she  was  sent  to  boarding-school,  where 
she  learned  to  recite  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  by 

10 


DRIFT 

Robert  Burns,  Gray's  " Elegy,"  and  "II  Penseroso,"  by 
Milton.  She  learned  also  a  large  number  of  other  things, 
of  which  Aunt  Emma  was  unaware.  It  might  be  con- 
sidered an  education,  again  it  might  not.  All  this  hap- 
pened in  the  last  years  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

School  over,  she  returned  to  New  York  to  "come  out." 
All  had  gone  pleasantly  until,  one  unfortunate  evening, 
Eileen  had  paid  a  visit  to  a  social  settlement  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  girl  friend,  Helen  Tucker,  and  her  mother,  a 
lifetime  friend  of  Miss  Endicott.  Eileen  had  come  home 
greatly  excited.  She  said  it  was  the  most  interesting 
evening  she  had  ever  spent,  she  had  visited  another 
world,  a  real  world,  where  things  were  happening.  And 
now,  suddenly,  so  it  appeared  to  her  aunt,  every- 
thing was  to  be  thrown  over.  Nothing  would  do  but 
she  must  go  and  live  at  this  preposterous  place.  It 
was  small  wonder  Grand-aunt  Emma  Endicott  pointed 
out  Eileen's  likeness  to  her  father;  in  no  other  way 
could  her  unaccountability  be  explained. 

During  the  nineteen  years  of  her  guardianship,  gentle 
Miss  Endicott  had  been  at  infinite  pains  to  fulfil  her 
task.  She  felt  at  times  she  had  been  placed  in  charge  of 
a  changeling;  she  was  sure  Nature  had  never  designed 
her  for  the  task.  She  could  never  feel  any  real  kin- 
ship; no  blood  of  the  respectable  clan  of  Endicotts 
seemed  to  flow  in  Eileen's  veins.  She  had  done  her 
best,  her  very  best,  to  bring  the  child  up  with  an  edu- 
cation befitting  a  gentlewomen — she  could  not  under- 
stand why  Eileen  should  be  dissatisfied. 

Before  starting  for  the  settlement,  Eileen  had  certain 
preparations  that  she  wished  to  make  by  herself.  She 
purposed  to  dress  suitably,  and  to  that  end  purchased 
a  ready-made  tailor  suit  and  a  number  of  severely  plain 
shirt  waists,  also  several  dozens  of  fine-textured  under- 
wear of  nun-like  simplicity  in  the  way  of  adornment. 

11 


DRIFT 

Sophie  unpacked  the  various  garments  with  a  peculiar 
expression,  but  when  Eileen  tried  on  the  suit,  was 
obliged  to  admit  she  looked  "tres  chic  et  bien  pra- 
tique." 

Notes  to  prospective  hostesses  took  a  good  deal  of 
time,  and  one  night  very  late  Eileen  had  a  ceremony — 
a  holocaust  of  German  favours,  fans,  notes,  party  slip- 
pers, and  other  reminders  of  the  life  she  was  discarding. 
It  was  yery  interesting  and  solemn,  watching  them  burn. 
She  felt  almost  like  saying  a  prayer,  but  could  not 
think  of  anything  appropriate.  She  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  it  should  be  of  renunciation  or  triumph. 

Within  a  week  after  Aunt  Emma's  protest,  she  was 
packed  and  ready  to  go  to  the  settlement.  Aunt  Emma, 
tearful,  but  at  last  unprotesting,  was  planning  to  spend 
the  following  day  shutting  up  the  new  room. 

"I'll  have  the  blue  carpet  left  on  the  floor,' '  she  said 
as  they  sat  together  before  the  fire  on  their  last  evening. 
"It  can  be  covered  with  heavy  brown  paper,  tacked 
down  securely  all  around  the  edges,  and  will  be 
quite  safe  from  moths,  I'm  sure.  Being  all  in  one 
piece  makes  it  so  difficult  to  handle,  if  it  were  to  be 
taken  up." 

Eileen  took  Aunt  Emma's  fancy-work  out  of  her 
hands.  On  the  eve  of  her  departure  she  longed  for  some- 
thing intimate.  "Oh,  don't  let's  talk  about  carpets!" 
she  said.  ' '  Everything  will  be  all  right  of  course.  Tell 
me  about  my  father  and  mother." 

She  had  asked  the  question  many  times  before;  it 
always  brought  to  Aunt  Emma's  face  a  look  of  per- 
plexed distress. 

"There's  nothing  more  than  I  have  already  told  you," 
she  said.  "She  was  very  young,  you  know,  and  I  don't 
think  she  ever  understood  your  father  very  well.  He, 
well — he  overwhelmed  her  a  little,  perhaps  he  expected 
too  much  of  her.    Yes,  I  guess  that  was  it,  your  father 

12 


DEIFT 

asked  her  to  be  more  than  she  was,  and  she  just  couldn't 
be." 

"How,  Auntie?"  demanded  the  girl;  "can't  you  ex- 
plain?" But  Aunt  Emma  drifted  off  into  vagueness, 
as  she  always  did  on  being  pressed. 

"Was  she  happier  when  she  knew  that  I  was  com- 
ing?" the  girl  asked,  putting  her  head  down  on  her 
aunt's  knee.  Aunt  Emma  stroked  her  hair.  "I'm 
afraid  not  very,"  she  said.  "I  wasn't  there  all  of  the 
time,  so  I  don't  know.  Your  father  was  away  a  great 
deal,  as  I  have  told  you,  and  your  mother  was  very  sick 
when  you  were  born.  I  couldn't  do  much.  She  suffered 
a  great  deal." 

Eileen  went  to  her  room  with  a  baffled  feeling  there 
was  a  mystery  that  she  could  not  reach.  She  knew  that 
Aunt  Emma  was  not  deliberately  withholding  anything ; 
it  was  only  that  she  did  not  know  enough  herself  to 
explain. 

Why,  the  girl  asked  herself,  should  two  people  who 
loved  each  other  make  each  other  unhappy  ?  Why  should 
her  own  coming  have  caused  such  pain,  even  unto  death? 
What  was  the  law  of  life  that  made  loving  and  marrying 
and  having  children  so  full  of  distress?  She  lay  and 
thought  over  all  the  people  she  knew  who  were  mar- 
ried. How  did  they  manage?  They  seemed  con- 
tented enough.  She  remembered  talks  with  other  girls 
at  school — vague,  romantic  speculations,  interspersed 
with  sentiments  about  healthy  children  gleaned  from 
the  biology  course.  Puzzling  questions  crowded  in  upon 
her.  What  would  it  be  like  to  fall  in  love  ?  If  she  mar- 
ried, would  she  be  unhappy  as  her  mother  had  been,  and 
be  left,  much  of  the  time,  alone?  And  children?  One 
wanted  children  of  course,  but  why  did  her  mother  die? 
Was  it  so  dangerous  as  that,  and  why  had  she  cried  so 
much  ? 

Eileen  longed  for  her  father  that  she  might  question 
13 


DRIFT 

him,  ask  him  of  these  deep  things  concerning  life  that 
Aunt  Emma  seemed  incapable  of  telling  her.  She  won- 
dered if  life  were  as  painful  to  everyone  as  to  those  two 
whose  coming  together  had  meant  her  own  existence. 
Now  they  were  gone,  and  she  was  left  with  life  before 
her. 


CHAPTER  II, 

THE  weeks  at  the  settlement  were  a  period  of  her  life 
Eileen  ever  afterwards  recalled  with  a  shudder  of 
recoil.  The  impulse  which  had  made  her  go  was  not, 
as  she  had  frankly  asserted  when  excusing  herself  from 
her  engagements,  in  the  least  a  noble  one.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  merely  wanted  to  see  what  was  happening 
"down  there,' '  by  which  she  meant  how  those  not  born 
to  the  purple  pursued  their  lives.  Well,  she  had  seen, 
and  the  scars  of  the  impressions  she  had  gained  would 
be  with  her  always. 

Helena  House  was  one  of  the  newer  settlements  es- 
tablished, apparently  no  one  could  quite  say  why  or  for 
What,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  most  congested  districts 
of  the  huge  city.  It  served  as  a  nleans  of  pleasure  and 
possibly  of  enlightenment  to  the  many  who  came  in 
and  out  of  its  hospitable  doors.  It  certainly  provided 
an  interesting  field  of  operations  to  the  six  clever  and 
unconventional  people  who  composed  the  "  residents/ ' 

At  the  head  of  this  modern  enterprise  were  a  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Martin,  who  had  become  engaged  when  they  were 
fellow-students  in  social  science  at  a  State  University. 
They  had  made  a  sort  of  prenuptial  contract  with  them- 
selves and  the  world  to  do  this  thing  if  the  gods  would  be 
good  enough  to  permit  them  to  do  it  together.  They 
were  both  keenly  interested,  very  busy  and  very  merry; 
in  fact,  Eileen's  first  impression  of  Helena  House  was 

15 


DRIFT 

one  of  great  cheerfulness.  The  "  residents' '  seemed  to 
take  themselves  and  their  mission  lightly. 

The  girl  had  not  told  Aunt  Emma  how  difficult  she  had 
found  it  to  persuade  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin  that  she  would 
be  valuable  as  a  member  of  the  oddly  assorted  group  that 
composed  their  "family."  Perhaps  it  was  because  of 
her  whimsical  honesty  in  assuring  them  it  was  en- 
tirely for  her  own  soul's  good,  perhaps  because  she 
always  obtained  what  she  wanted,  that  had  caused  them 
finally  to  agree  to  the  experiment.  When  Mr.  Martin 
first  heard  of  it  he  evinced  a  lively  distrust  of  young 
ladies  dissatisfied  with  their  first  season.  He  had  been 
obliged  to  enquire  of  his  wife  what  a  "season"  was,  and 
upon  being  informed,  had  expressed  the  opinion  that 
Eileen  had  much  better  stick  to  hers. 

After  a  few  polite  expressions  of  interest,  the  busy 
residents  left  Eileen  to  her  own  devices  and  had  it 
not  been  for  Mrs.  Martin's  kindly  and  humourous  inter- 
est, she  would  have  felt  herself  both  lonely  and  useless. 
For  the  first  fortnight  she  watched  the  activities  of  the 
settlement  with  her  usual  eagerness  in  following  a  new 
pursuit.  She  talked  winningly  with  the  girls  from  a 
near-by  box  factory  who  came  to  the  evening  dancing 
classes  and  pounded  out  piano  accompaniments  to  mark 
time  for  a  peculiarly  ear-racking  combination  of  musical 
instruments  known  as  "the  boys' quartette."  She  also 
gave  assistance  in  stocking  the  loan-closet  used  by  the 
district  nurse  and  offered  to  make  rounds  with  that  busy 
person,  only  to  be  declined. 

Constantly  in  her  mind  was  the  wonder  what  she  had 
come  for,  what  any  of  them  were  there  for.  It  all 
seemed  confused  and  aimless.  Every  afternoon  and 
evening  there  flocked  to  the  settlement  a  polyglot  assem- 
blage of  children  and  young  people  to  claim  the  attention 
of  the  residents.  Eileen  wondered  what  all  the  classes 
and  lectures  and  plays  had  to  do  with  their  daily  lives: 

16. 


DEIFT 

whether  the  quiet  dignity  of  the  spacious  rooms,  the 
good  manners  and  the  ways  of  cleanliness  of  the  six  peo- 
ple who  called  the  settlement  home  would  ever  have 
any  effect  upon  the  clamourous  throngs  who  availed  them- 
selves of  its  opportunities.  At  times  she  doubted  it ;  at 
times,  as  she  watched  the  unconscious  friendliness  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin,  the  absence  of  any  sense  of  differ- 
ence between  them  and  their  "neighbours,"  she  had  a 
glimpse  of  what  such  influences  might  mean.  It  was 
not  to  be  analysed  or  measured,  it  was  not  to  be  ap- 
praised, perhaps  it  was  not  even  to  be  seen,  but  it  was 
there. 

Eileen  had  gone  to  Helena  House  in  late  January, 
and  it  so  chanced  that  she  was  almost  alone  at  the  settle- 
ment one  evening  a  month  later  while  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Martin  were  away  for  a  short  holiday  over  Washington's 
birthday.  They  had  taken  the  "Boys'  Club"  for  coast- 
ing and  skating  to  a  farm  in  the  country  belonging  to 
the  settlement  and  intended  to  remain  for  some  days. 

Eileen  was  seated  at  the  telephone  with  a  book,  when 
the  young  Greek  boy  who  acted  as  general  utility  ser- 
vant announced  a  visitor.  He  said  it  was  a  young  person 
and  she  was  crying  awful  and  would  Miss  Picardy  please 
hurry. 

Eileen  found  a  dirty  and  dishevelled  creature,  "crying 
awful"  as  the  boy  had  said.  Her  condition  was  evi- 
dent. Wishing  that  Mrs.  Martin  was  on  hand,  Eileen 
sat  down  by  her  with  a  word  of  question.  The  girl 
stopped  crying  long  enough  to  look  her  over  and  ask 
"Where  is  she?    I  mean  the  Missus,  I  want  her." 

"She's  away,"  said  Eileen.  "I'm  dreadfully  sorry; 
can't  I  help  you?  I'm  alone  in  the  House  now,  but  I 
can  get  someone  in  a  little  while." 

"No,"  said  the  girl.  "It's  her  I  want;  where 's  she 
gone?" 

17 


DEIFT 

Eileen  explained  that  Mrs.  Martin  was  taking  a  brief 
holiday,  as  she  was  very  tired.  It  might  be  a  few  days 
before  her  return.  The  girl  rose  heavily.  "All  right," 
she  said,  "111  get  on." 

' '  Oh,  no ! ' '  Eileen  protested.  ' '  Mrs.  Martin  would  want 
to  help  you  if  she  could.  Don't  go  till  you're  rested." 
The  girl  gave  a  snort.  "I  guess  I'm  not  goin'  to  get 
'rested'  much  fer  quite  a  while,  but  if  she's  takin'  a 
rest,  she'd  better  have  it — I  don'  want  to  do  nothin'  to 
interfere.  She  told  me  to  come  here — she  said  I  could 
— always — I  ain't  got  no  where  else  to  go — oh,  what '11 
I  do — now  she  ain't  here?"  She  began  to  cry  again, 
and  Eileen  beckoned  to  the  young  Greek  boy,  who  stood 
looking  stolidly  on.  His  counsel  might  be  better  than 
none. 

"  'In  trouble'  o'  course,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head 
sideways.  "Lots  of  'em's  like  that.  They  always  have 
to  get  through  the  cryin'  stage.  I've  seen  'em.  She'll 
be  all  right,  don't  you  worry." 

Finding  he  had  no  definite  views  beyond  these 
comments,  Eileen  returned  to  the  girl,  sitting  huddled 
up,  trying  to  dry  her  eyes  on  the  hem  of  her  dress.  It 
occurred  to  her  that  Mrs.  Martin  would  institute  en- 
quiries. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?"  she  asked. 
Again  the  girl  looked  her  over,  with  doubtful  eyes, 
as  if  testing  her.    Eileen  motioned  the  Greek  boy  to  go 
and  leaned  back,  waiting. 

The  girl  looked  around  the  room.  "I  ben  here  be- 
fore," she  remarked.  "It's  pretty,  ain't  it?  I  wish  I'd 
come  back  sooner. ' ' 

"Won't  you  tell  me  your  name?"  Eileen  asked,  "and 
how  I  can  help  you  ?  " 

"My  name's  Victoria  Lenowska,"  said  the  girl; 
"there's  a  kid  comin',  but  I  dunno's  you  can  do  any- 
thing about  it." 

13 


DEIPT 

Victoria  laughed  and  again  gave  her  a  disconcerting 
stare.  "At  least  you  don't  look  as  if  you  could,"  she 
added. 

A  curious  sensation  came  over  Eileen — what  did 
this  girl  of  the  streets  think  of  her?  "Please  tell  me 
all  about  it."    she  said. 

"All  right,  I  will,"  Victoria's  face  seemed  to  shrink 
with  the  sneer  that  spread  over  it,  "an*  I  guess  you 
ain't  often  heard  anything  like  it.  I  hate  the  kid  that's 
comin',  hate  it,  hate  it,  d'you  hear?  An'  I  hate  him! 
If  I  ever  get  through  with  it  I'm  goin>  to  take  the  kid 
long  enough  to  throw  it  at  him,  there!" 

Eileen  steeled  herself  and  waited.  "Do  you  want  mo 
to  go  on?"  Victoria  asked,  and  Eileen  assented  mutely. 

"He's  my  step-f  at  her. "  Victoria's  voice  was  loud 
and  hoarse ;  it  seemed  as  if  she  wanted  all  to  hear.  ' '  He 
talked — Lordy,  how  he  talked!  Said*  he  didn't  like  her — 
he  liked  me — said  we'd  go  somewhere,  him  an'  me — 
said  I  could  do  anything  with  him.  When  I  told  him, 
'bout  the  kid,  what  d'you  think  he  said?  Said  it  wasn't 
his'n,  said  I'd  been  goin'  'round  with  everybody — and 
he  knew,  he  knew,  I'd  a  done  anything  fer  him!  Oh 
wait  till  I  get  at  him— wait  till  I  fix  him!"  She  fell  to 
crying  again  in  a  sort  of  fury,  but  in  a  moment  went  on. 
"It  was  one  night  when  I  come  in  from  work,  late, 
and  took  off  my  cloak,  Maw  found  it  out,  'bout  me  I 
mean,  what  was  goin'  to  happen.  She  acted  up  violent 
an'  said  I'd  got  to  go.  I  didn't  say  a  word  fer  a 
minute,  I  thought  he'd  say  somethin',  but  he  just  sat 
there  lookin'  ugly  an'  I  pointed  at  him.  'There's  the 
father,'  I  says,  'sittin'  there  in  that  chair — now  what 
you  goin'  to  do?'  Maw  stopped  talkin'  and  looked  at 
him.  Seemed  as  if  she  couldn't  take  it  in,  what  I  said. 
Then  she  went  over  to  him  and  stood  there  beside  him — 
'Is  it  true?'  she  said,  and  then — over  again,  'is  it  true?' 
He  looked  at  her  an'  then  he  looked  at  me.    'You  know 

19 


DEIFT 

your  own  daughter,'  he  said,  cool  as  you  please,  'I  s'pose 
you've  discovered  she  can  lie  like  the  best  of  'em — 
this  is  about  the  neatest  one  she's  told  yet.'  I  could  a 
killed  him. — I  don*  know  why  I  didn't.  I  got  my  hat 
and  cloak  and  I  walked  straight  out  o '  the  door.  D  'you 
think  I'd  stay?  I  ain't  seen  'em  since — either  of  'em, 
but  I'm  gona  kill  him  when  I  get  a  chance.  I  lost  my 
job  today,  I  was  dish-washin'  in  a  restaurant,  they  said 
it  would  come  soon  an'  they  wouldn't  have  me  'round. 
I've  been  sittin'  over  in  the  Square.  D'you  know  what 
I've  been  thinkin'?  What  she  and  him  said  to  each 
other,  after  I  went  out — what  she  said.  She'll  make  it 
hot  fer  him.  She  knows  that  wasn't  no  lie  I  told,  'though 
she  was  fooled  fer  a  minute.  She'll  think  about  it,  and 
after  a  while  she'll  know  it's  true.  I  dunno's  I  want 
to  kill  him  after  all,  guess  havin'  to  listen  to  her  talk 
'ud  be  better."  Victoria  gave  a  horrible  laugh,  then 
she  suddenly  screamed.  "I've  had  pains  all  day."  she 
gasped,  leaning  back,  ghastly  pale,  "I  guess  it's  comin', 
I  want  to  lie  down!  Oh,  what '11  I  do!  What '11  I  do?" 
Eileen  comprehended  there  was  need  of  swift  action. 
The  Greek  boy  supplied  the  address  of  the  nearest  hos- 
pital. Telephoning  to  enquire,  she  was  thankful  to  be 
assured  that  Victoria  could  be  admitted.  A  taxi-cab 
was  summoned  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  two  were  on 
their  way — Eileen  badly  frightened,  Victoria  pouring 
forth  her  misery.  Once  Eileen  begged  her  to  stop,  cry- 
ing out,  with  her  hands  over  her  ears,  but  at  her  protest 
Victoria  only  went  the  more  ruthlessly  into  details. 
Eileen  was  stunned  by  the  abandonment  of  the  recital, 
the  absence  of  all  explanation  or  excuse.  Victoria  stated 
the  facts,  that  was  all,  and  her  bursts  of  tears  seemed 
to  spring  only  from  fury  at  her  predicament.  Over 
and  over  again  she  said,  "I  don'  want  the  kid,  I  don' 
want  to  see  it — I  hate  it!    Tell  'em  I  won't  take  it.    I 

20  c 


DEIFT 

just  want  to  get  over  havin'  it — I  can  take  care  of  my- 
self." 

Eileen  sat  crouched  in  the  corner  of  the  cab,  fran- 
tic with  the  slowness  of  their  progress,  the  delays  at 
street  corners.  Every  word  that  Victoria  spoke  seemed 
to  burn  itself  into  her  mind.  So  this  was  what  her  world 
had  conspired  to  hide  from  her — this  horrible  thing! 
As  if  lighted  by  wild  fires,  Eileen  beheld  the  spectacle  in 
all  of  its  nakedness, — the  awful  drama  of  procreation — the 
mystery  of  the  lust  of  man,  the  unwillingness  of  woman. 
Suddenly  there  flashed  into  her  mind  Aunt  Emma's 
vague  words  concerning  her  mother 's  pain.  Was  it 
thus  she  had  felt  before  she,  Eileen,  was  born?  What 
had  her  father  been?  A  groan  from  Victoria  brought 
her  thoughts  back.  A  dazed  sense  of  incredibility  came 
'over  her  as  the  cab  drew  up  at  the  door  of  the  hospital. 

Eileen  was  thankful  for  the  simple  way  she  and  her 
charge  were  treated.  A  competent-looking  young  doctor, 
assisted  by  two  nurses,  possessed  themselves  of  Vic- 
toria's person  and  in  a  short  time  she  was  lying  on  a 
stretcher  between  clean  sheets,  while  Eileen  stood  by 
wondering  at  the  quiet  way  this  appalling  event  was 
taken.  She  had  been  asked  a  few  questions  and  then 
ignored.  She  would  have  gone  away,  save  that  Vic- 
toria as  they  neared  the  hospital  had  extracted  a  promise 
from  her  to  "stay  alongside  of  her."  "You've  got 
to  promise  to  tell  'em  I  won't  have  the  kid"  she 
screamed  out  as  they  entered  the  building.  So  Eileen 
stayed,  and  on  mentioning  the  promise  she  had  made 
to  the  half-unconscious  girl,  was  provided  with  a 
white  gown  and  cap  and  told  to  follow  the  stretcher 
as  it  was  wheeled  along  the  halls  to  the  delivery  room. 
Eileen  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  then  lived  through 
an  hour  the  memory  of  which  was  to  haunt  her  for 
many  years. 

In  a  period  of  consciousness  Victoria  became  f  right- 
21 


DRIFT 

ened  at  the  strange  faces  around  her  in  their  ghostly 
clothes.  She  looked  wildly  about  for  Eileen.  "  They  're 
giving  me  stuff,"  she  said,  "they  want  to  kill  me!  I 
won't  take  any  more.  I  won't!  I  won't!  Tell  'em  to  kill 
the  kid  and  let  me  go,  I '11  get  out !  I  won't  be  any  bother 
to  anybody — he  needn't  be  afraid,  I'll  never  go  home 
again. " 

The  nurse  urged  Eileen  to  go  into  the  corridor,  but 
she  would  not  forsake  the  girl  who  turned  to  her  in  her 
anguish,  and  the  raving  and  screaming  went  on.  Vic- 
toria would  not  submit  to  the  anaesthetic,  and  after  a 
few  unavailing  words  of  argument,  the  young  doctor 
waved  it  aside.  "She's  strong,"  he  said,  "it  isn't 
necessary,  don't  force  it."  Once  Victoria  started  up 
and  looked  around.  She  seemed  to  be  demanding  wit- 
nesses. "Get  me  out  o'  this"  she  said,  and  her  eyes 
widened  horribly  as  she  looked  at  them,  one  after  the 
other.  "Just  get  me  out  o'  this,  and  I'll  never  let  any 
man  get  at  me  again,  s'help  me  Gawd!" 

It  seemed  to  Eileen  the  birth  would  never  take  place, 
but  at  last  a  peculiar  sucking  sound  made  itself  heard 
above  the  low  voice  of  the  doctor  and  she  understood 
that  another  human  being  had  drawn  breath.  She 
looked  at  Victoria,  quiet  now,  her  face  white  and 
pinched,  her  hands,  large  and  stained  and  ugly,  clasped 
under  her  chin.  What  was  it  that  was  wrong?  This 
woman  had  become  a  mother  and  she  did  not  turn  her 
head  to  look,  did  not  ask  one  question.  The  nurse  was 
holding  something  wrapped  in  white.  "It's  a  boy"  she 
said,  then  she  looked  at  the  mother.  "Don't  you  want  to 
see  it?"  But  the  young  doctor  made  an  exclamation. 
"Don't  press  her,"  he  said,  "wait  till  tomorrow." 

An  hour  later  Eileen  found  herself  free  to  go.  She 
had  told  the  hospital  clerk  all  she  knew  of  the  case  and 
her  answers  had  been  duly  recorded.  They  assured  her 
the  new-made  mother  and  her  child  were  both  asleep 

22 


DEIFT 

and  all  was  "normal."  There  seemed  nothing  further 
for  Eileen  to  do  but  return  to  the  settlement.  She 
called  a  cab  and  was  driven  through  the  brightly  lighted 
streets. 

As  she  entered  the  hall  of  Helena  House,  she  noticed 
that  the  hands  of  the  big  clock  stood  at  eleven  o'clock. 
Only  eleven !  Three  hours  before  she  had  been  sitting 
there  at  the  telephone,  and  all  these  things  had  happened 
since.  She  had  a  feeling  that  she  herself  was  changed, 
that  she  would  never  again  be  as  before.  How  could 
people  laugh  and  be  gay  and  go  about  while  such  things 
as  this  were  taking  place  all  the  time,  every  day?  She 
recalled  how  they  had  had  to  wait  at  the  hospital  before 
going  to  the  "delivery  room"  because  it  was  being  set 
to  rights  after  some  other  woman  had  gone  through  that 
dreadful  pain. 

Eileen  hurried  to  her  room.  She  wanted  to  be  alone,  to 
think  it  out.  All  night  she  lay  turning  it  over  in  her 
mind.  All  she  could  remember  to  have  been  told  or  read, 
every  possible  thing  she  could  recall,  she  brought  up 
and  examined, — Aunt  Emma's  vague  generalities  and 
advice  to  "wait  until  she  was  older,"  scenes  in  books, 
occasional  intimate  conversations  with  other  girls  at 
school,  when  the  mysteries  of  love  and  life  had  been  dis- 
cussed with  a  certain  aloofness,  holding  both  reverence 
and  fascination.  None  of  these  things  gave  her  any 
understanding  or  clue  as  to  what  had  just  taken  place. 
Always  in  the  back  of  her  mind  lay  that  dreadful  ques- 
tion as  to  her  father  and  mother — why  had  her  mother 
died,  what  had  made  her  suffer?  She  fell  asleep  at 
last,  weary  and  bewildered. 

Mr.  Martin  was  concerned  that  she  should  have  been 
frightened,  but  commended  her  quick  resourcefulness 
in  getting  the  girl  to  the  hospital.  Of  her  own  part 
in  the  affair  he  did  not  enquire  further,  seeming  more 
interested  as  to  what  was  to  be  done  for  the  girl  to 

23 


DRIFT 

keep  her  from  what  he  plainly  considered  the  inevitable 
road.  Mrs.  Martin  had  frequent  talks  with  Victoria 
during  her  convalescence.  One  day,  on  starting  for 
the  hospital,  she  asked  Eileen  if  she  would  like  to  go 
with  her.  Eileen  gave  a  quick  exclamation  of  dissent 
and  Mrs.  Martin  said  no  more.  A  few  days  later  she 
told  Mrs.  Martin  that  she  was  ashamed  of  herself  and 
would  like  to  go.  Mrs.  Martin  looked  at  her  with  an 
odd  expression.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I  asked  Vic- 
toria if  she  would  like  to  see  you,  but  she  said  no." 

Eileen  was  intensely  chagrined.  Mrs.  Martin  caught 
the  look.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  blunt,"  she  said,  "don't 
be  troubled.  Victoria  is  difficult  to  deal  with.  I  am 
at  my  wits'  end  sometimes  to  know  what  to  say  to  her." 

"She  said  she  was  going  to  kill  her  step-father,"  said 
Eileen  in  a  small  voice. 

"She  won't,"  Mrs.  Martin  asserted,  "merely  hyster- 
ics, although  I  know  what  she  meant.  I  feel  that  way 
myself,  frequently." 

It  seemed  that  Victoria  had  persisted  in  her  refusal  to 
see  the  child,  which  was  shortly  sent  to  an  orphan  asy- 
lum. She  merely  stated  that  she  hated  it.  She  was 
a  source  of  trial  to  the  hospital  authorities  because  of 
her  rampant  insubordination,  and  the  moment  she 
gained  physical  strength,  watched  her  chance  and  es- 
caped. 

Mrs.  Martin  was  much  depressed,  but  Mr.  Martin  took 
a  hopeful  view.  To  Eileen's  amazement,  he  even 
laughed  when  informed  of  her  flight.  "How  she  must 
have  loathed  it!"  he  exclaimed,  "the  neat,  white  beds — 
the  rules!    She'll  fight  her  way  through." 

Eileen  could  hardly  endure  'the  discussions.  She 
wanted  to  blot  out  the  scene.  For  weeks  she  would 
wake  up  suddenly  with  Victoria's  screams  in  her  ears 
or  hear  that  harsh  voice — "Just  get  me  out  o'  this  and 

24 


DRIFT 

111  never  let  any  man  get  at  me  again,  s'help  me 
Gawd!" 

The  horror  seemed  to  grow  until  she  became  possessed 
with  a  desire  to  get  away  from  all  that  reminded  her  of 
the  night  Victoria  had  come. 

It  was  mid-March  when  she  sought  Mr.  Martin  one 
evening  in  the  small  room  dedicated  to  his  exclusive 
use  and  told  him  of  her  decision.  She  added  a  humble 
expression  of  gratitude  to  him  for  allowing  her  to  come, 
and  of  affection  for  Mrs.  Martin.  " She's  wonderful/ ' 
she  said,  "I  think  I  can  never  forget  what  she  is." 

Mr.  Martin,  at  first  ironically  sceptical  of  Eileen  as 
a  "resident,"  had  grown  to  like  her.  He  was  sorry 
for  her — she  seemed  so  pitiful.  He  asked  her  to  sit 
down  and  tell  him  what  she  was  going  to  do  next.  "I 
don't  know,"  said  Eileen.  "My  aunt  wants  me  to  stay 
with  her,  perhaps  I'd  better." 

Mr.  Martin  bade  her  good-bye  next  day  with  an  added 
word  of  counsel.  "Come  and  see  us,"  he  said,  "but 
first  get  a  job.  That's  what  you  want,  a  good  job. 
Everybody  ought  to  have  a  job." 

Eileen  looked  up  at  him  smiling.  "I  thought  you 
would  show  me  one,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AUNT  EMMA  was  dozing,  waiting  for  dinner  to  be 
announced,  when  Eileen  appeared  and  stopped  in  the 
doorway  to  glance  around  the  big,  dark  room.  "How 
grand  everything  looks  !"  she  said.  "I've  decided  that 
as  a  social  worker  I'm  no  good.    Let's  go  to  Europe." 

1  ■  Oh,  dear ! ' '  said  Aunt  Emma.  * '  It 's  so  hard  to  make 
people  understand!  I  thought  I'd  like  to  spend  the 
summer  at  the  Farm.  You/re  really  not  going  back 
to  that  awful  East  Side?  Well,  I  certainly  am  glad  of 
that." 

After  her  first  flippancy  Eileen  made  an  attempt 
at  explanation  of  her  abrupt  departure  from  the 
settlement.  It  was  hard  to  tell  about,  she  said.  Aunt 
Emma  displayed  little  interest  in  what  had  happened  as 
a  result  of  Eileen's  queer  notion,  now  that  it  was  over. 
She  asked  a  few  general  questions  and  was  frankly 
relieved  to  have  her  niece  back  again  "safe  and  sound." 
She  suggested  postponing  dinner  so  that  Eileen  could 
have  a  nice  hot  bath  and  fresh  clothes. 

"I've  had  both  this  morning,"  Eileen  laughed;  "did 
you  think  I  had  joined  'the  great  unwashed'?" 

After  dinner  Eileen  sat  silent,  listening  to  her  aunt's 
recital  of  how  troublesome  she  had  found  it  explaining 
her  absence,  interspersed  with  exclamations  of  thank- 
fulness that  now  all  the  "little  fibs"  she  had  permitted 

26. 


DEIFT 

herself  to  tell  would  be  "all  right.' '  "I  couldn't  say  that 
I  didn't  know  when  you  were  coming  back,  could  I? 
You've  no  idea  the  questions  everybody  asked!  I  felt 
just  like  saying,  'Go  and  ask  Martha  Tucker  why  she 
went,  she  is  responsible.'  I  assure  you  I  felt  almost 
cross  sometimes,  really  almost  cross.  It  seemed  to  me 
they  should  not  ask  questions. ' ' 

Eileen,  wandering  about  in  her  usual  fashion,  stopped 
to  stroke  the  soft,  old  cheek.  "Darling  Auntie,"  she 
said,  "don't  feel  cross.  I'm  at  home  now.  No  harm's 
done."  She  waited  for  a  little  and  then  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "There's  something  I  want  to  ask  you  about, 
something  I  can't  understand.  I  went  with  a  girl  to 
the  hospital — she  had  a  child — she  didn't  want  it — it 
was  all  pretty  dreadful.  Aunt  Emma,  I  wish  I  knew 
more  about  things  like  that.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me.  I 
don't  mean  physically  exactly,  but  how  these  things 
come  about, — what  makes  men  make  women  so  un- 
happy? I  can't  understand — I  wish  I  knew  more  about 
love." 

"My  dear  child!"  Aunt  Emma  exclaimed.  "Did 
you  say  you  went  to  the  hospital  with  a  girl  from  the 
settlement?  You  mean  when  a  child  was  born?  How 
on  earth  did  that  happen?  I  asked  Mrs.  Martin  to 
take  care  of  you.  I  wrote  to  her  when  you  first  went 
and  said  it  was  my  wish  that  you  should  not  be  brought 
into  contact  with  such  things.  I  am  amazed  at  what 
you  tell  me." 

"Oh  Auntie,  why  did  you  do  that?  You  don't  un- 
derstand how  it  is,  how  they  work,  I  mean.  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's too  busy  to  bother  about  me;  I  wish  you  hadn't. 
It  seems  so  silly!" 

"I  thought  it  desirable  to  take  care  of  you,"  main- 
tained Aunt  Emma,  "  'though  I  didn't  think  her  an- 
swer was  very  satisfactory.  She  said  she  would  try, 
but  that  a  settlement  was  not  like  a  girl's  own  home 

27 


DRIFT 

and  she  had  done  her  best  to  dissuade  you  from  com- 
ing." 

"She  did.  Oh  poor  Mrs.  Martin!  She  never  told 
me  yon  wrote,  she  was  just  heavenly  kind  to  me.  Auntie, 
you  11  never  understand. ' '  Eileen  was  silent  for  a  little 
and  then  returned  to  her  question.  "Won't  you  tell 
me  what  I  asked?  I  find  so  many  things  puzzling, — 
I  don't  feel  as  if  I  understood — anything.' ? 

"My  child,"  said  Aunt  Emma,  looking  out  of  the 
•window,  "I  hope  you  will  marry  a  good  man  some 
day  and  then  you  will  know  about  love." 

"But  that  doesn't  answer  me!"  In  spite  of  her 
previous  difficulties  she  was  determined  this  time  to 
find  out  if  she  could.  "I  hope  I  will,  too,  if  that's  what 
makes  people  happy,  but — oh  Aunt  Emma,  was  my 
father  a  'good  man'?  did  my  mother  love  him?  did  she 
give  herself  to  him  gladly,  or  did  she  hate  him — for  it, — 
for  what  he  wanted — what  he  asked  of  her?" 

Aunt  Emma  took  out  her  handkerchief.  "My  dear," 
she  said,  "I  regret  exceedingly  that  you  had  this  un- 
fortunate experience  and  got  all  these  ideas  in  your 
head.    I  cannot  help  being  displeased  with  Mrs.  Martin. ' ' 

Eileen  said  no  more.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  find 
out.    They  did  not  want  her  to  know. 

"Now  let  us  talk  about  summer  plans,"  said  Aunt 
Emma;  "that  will  be  more  cheerful,  and  please  promise 
me  to  put  all  these  gloomy  thoughts  out  of  your  head. 
You  said  something  about  going  to  Europe;  do  you 
think  that  would  be  pleasanter  than  the  Farm?" 

Eileen  recalled  the  many  long,  idle,  hot  days  at  the 
Farm,  when  she  had  wondered  how  to  occupy  her- 
self. She  wanted  very  much  to  go  to  Europe,  she  said, 
wanted  to  get  far  away. 

Aunt  Emma  looked  at  her  wistfully,  hoping  her 
mind  was  not  too  firmly  set  on  the  plan.  She  hated 
hotels  and  she  hated  table  d'hotes,  and  she  dearly  loved 

28 


DRIFT 

her  Connecticut  home,  known  as  the  Farm.  She 
was  glad  to  have  her  wayward  niece  at  home  again, 
for  she  was  responsible  for  her  welfare  and  was,  be- 
sides, very  fond  of  her,  but  there  could  be  no  denying 
that  life  was  more  tranquil  when  Eileen  was  absent. 

The  Farm  was  a  beautiful  old  place  among  the 
Connecticut  hills.  The  house  was  low-roofed  and  un- 
pretentious without,  and  the  last  word  of  luxurious  com- 
fort within.  It  had  yielded  to  modernising  effects  of 
chintz  and  Japanese  wall  papers  more  graciously  than 
the  house  on  Washington  Square.  Around  the  elm- 
shaded,  rambling  old  house  were  several  hundred  acres 
of  fields  and  woodland,  along  which  ran  the  Connecticut 
River.  There  were  a  few  cows,  unconsciously  posing, 
several  horses,  as  Aunt  Emma  preferred  her  stately 
carriages  and  black-tailed  horses  to  those  new  ugly,  evil- 
smelling  motors,  a  chicken  yard,  vegetables,  flowers  and 
hay,  so  the  name  Farm  was  considered  suitable. 

With  a  sigh  the  good  lady  thought  of  all  these  things, 
and  after  a  few  more  protests  yielded  to  her  niece's 
desire  to  go  "far  away." 

It  was  a  few  days  after  this  that  Mrs.  Tucker,  sitting 
at  luncheon  with  her  daughter  Helen  in  their  cottage  on 
Staten  Island,  was  startled  by  the  girl's  remarking, 
11  Mother,  did  you  know  that  Eileen  Picardy  had  just 
come  home  from  spending  a  month  at  Helena  House  ! ' ' 

"I  did  not,"  said  her  mother.  "What  an  extraor- 
dinary idea!" 

"Very!"  said  Helen,  "and  there's  something  queer 
about  it,  because  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  her  as 
to  why  she  went,  or  why  she  came  away,  or  what  she 
did  while  she  was  there.  All  she  would  say  was  that 
she  thought  it  seemed  interesting  the  night  she  went 
there  to  dinner  with  us, — that's  why  she  went." 

Martha  Tucker  looked  worried.    "Was  that  the  first 

29 


DEIFT 

time  that  child  ever  saw  a  settlement  house  f  \  ?  she  asked. 

Helen  thought  it  was  and  recalled  to  her  mother 
Eileen's  questions  on  the  way  home.  " Don't  you  re- 
member how  you  enlarged  upon  how  happy  they  all 
were  because  they  were  interested  and  loved  jtheir 
work?  It  was  quite  alluring,  the  picture  you  painted. 
Eileen  was  bewitched." 

"Certainly  I  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  "but 
who  would  have  supposed — " 

"Oh  nobody  but  Eileen,"  Helen  broke  in.  "She's 
quicksilver;  you  can't  tell  which  way  she'll  run,  al- 
ways away  from  where  you  think  you'll  catch  her." 

"Dear,  dear!"  Mrs.  Tucker  was  plainly  concerned. 
"I  hope  her  aunt  doesn't  think  it  was  my  fault." 

"Hm!"  mused  her  daughter.  "I  guess  your  con- 
science must  trouble  you,  because  that  is  precisely  what 
Miss  Endicott  does  think.  I  went  up  there  to  lunch 
yesterday.  I  hadn't  seen  Eileen  for  ages.  It  didn't 
come  out  until  after  we  had  finished  luncheon, — where 
she'd  been,  I  mean,  and  then  Ejleen  was  so  silent  and 
mysterious!  We  thought  we'd  go  for  a  walk,  and  when 
she  went  to  get  her  hat,  Miss  Endicott  was  queerer 
still.  She  took  hold  of  my  arm;  'Don't  say  any  more 
about  the  settlement,'  she  whispered,  'Eileen's  very 
unhappy.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  don't  talk  about 
it.'  I  asked  her  what  in  the  world  made  her  go,  and 
she  looked  at  me  solemnly  and  said  'Your  mother.'  Just 
then  Eileen  came  back." 

"Nonsense!"  Mrs.  Tucker's  tone  was  tart.  "I  can't 
be  held  responsible  for  a  girl's  whims." 

■ '  Nevertheless  you  are, ' '  said  Helen.  ' '  Poor  old  Mum- 
mieuas  if  you  hadn't  enough  trouble  with  me!" 

Martha  Tucker  brooded  for  a  day  on  the  injustice 
done  her,  and  then  set  out  from  her  home  on  Staten 
Island  to  visit  her  old  friend  Miss  Endicott.  She  would 
not  allow  her  to  labour  under  such  an  outrageous  mis- 


DRIFT 

apprehension,— everybody  knew  how  troublesome  Eileen 
could  be — she  was  a  spoiled  child,  a  badly  spoiled  child, 
her  aunt  had  no  control  over  her,  and  then  laid  the 
blame  of  her  eccentricities  on  other  people.    The  idea! 

She  found  Aunt  Emma  mild  enough,  now  that  it  was 
over.  The  whole  thing  had  been  "unfortunate"  she 
said.  She  hoped  Eileen  had  learned  a  lesson  at  any 
rate,  and  would  realise  that  older  people  sometimes 
knew  best.  "It  was  a  ridiculous  notion/ '  said  Aunt 
Emma.  "I  told  her  so,  but  she  wouldn't  listen, — she 
never  does.  However,  you  needn't  feel  guilty, — I  can't 
see  why  you  should — I  only  meant  it  was  your  taking 
her  there  and  talking  about  it,  started  her  off. ' ' 

"I  merely  told  her  that  what  they  were  doing  was 
interesting,"  protested  Mrs.  Tucker,  "they  need  so  many 
things, — a  gymnasium  and  a  large  lecture  hall, — I 
thought  if  Eileen  saw  what  was  taking  place,  recognised 
the  needs,  you  know." 

"I  know,  I  know!"  said  Aunt  Emma.  She  will  prob- 
ably build  them  several  houses  before  she  gets  through, 
if  anybody  has  asked  her  to." 

The  two  ladies  chatted  a  little  longer,  and  then  Mrs. 
Tucker  returned  to  her  home  with  a  mind  not  entirely 
at  ease.  However,  she  decided  that  Emma  Endicott  was 
foolish  to  let  herself  be  so  upset ;  she  might  as  well  get 
used  to  Eileen's  vagaries.  A  charming  creature,  Eileen, 
but  very  wilful,  oh,  very  wilful ! 

Helen  met  her  at  the  door  of  the  cottage,  which  stood 
on  the  top  of  a  hill,  overlooking  the  sea.  "Did  you 
clear  your  skirts?"  she  said. 

"Nonsense,"  said  her  mother,  "I  told  Emma  Endi- 
cott I  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  going.  Where's  your 
father?" 

1 '  In  the  study, ' '  said  Helen.  "  He 's  had  his  tea.  Shall 
I  make  you  some?" 

"Oh  do!"  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  sinking  into  a  chair. 

31 


DEIFT 

"The  ferries  are  so  crowded  at  this  hour!  I'm  not 
going  to  town  again  for  a  week,  I'm  so  tired!" 

Helen  Tucker  went  out  to  get  the  tea,  and  her  mother 
looked  around  the  little  sitting-room  with  its  faded 
furniture,  faded  carpet,  faded  portraits  in  old  gilt 
frames,  with  a  sense  of  relaxation  and  comfort.  She 
would  like  several  things  in  her  life  to  be  different,  yes, 
a  good  many  things  if  you  came  to  reckon  them,  but 
she  would  not  like  to  live  in  a  huge  house  on  Wash- 
ington Square  with  two  solemn  functionaries  standing 
about,  and  a  wayward  niece  flying  around  to  settlements. 
She  was  thankful  Helen  was  not  that  sort, — and  Josiah  I 
Well,  Josiah  could  not  be  called  companionable,  of 
course,  but  he  was  much  better  than  nobody  at  all,  al- 
ways amiable  at  any  rate.  Emma  Endicott  had  no- 
body. 

Martha  Tucker  was  a  remarkably  handsome  woman 
of  forty-five.  She  was  very  tall,  with  an  erect  carriage 
of  the  head  that  made  people  use  the  word  "queenly." 
She  was  the  kind  of  a  woman  who  could  have  worn 
rich  silks  and  velvets  and  heavy  jewels  and  been  more 
beautiful;  yet  here  she  was  in  her  plain  stuff  dress, 
looking  about  at  her  faded  sitting-room  and  actually 
rejoicing  at  its  shabbiness. 

Martha  Tucker's  reflections  as  to  her  husband  Josiah 
were  remote,  but  then  Josiah  was  remote.  There  were 
those  among  Martha  Tucker's  friends  who  would  not 
have  agreed  to  her  conclusion  that  he  was  "much  better 
than  nobody  at  all." 

Josiah  Tucker  was  a  peculiar  person.  He  seemed  to 
have  decided  long  ago  that  human  beings  were  unneces- 
sary adjuncts  to  life.  His  days  and  hours  moved  se- 
renely onward,  as  he,  lighted,  surrounded  and  embraced 
by  an  aura  of  thought,  pursued  his  course  alone.  Un- 
affrighted  by  the  scenes  around  him,  he  asked  not  love, 
amusement,    sympathy.     His   books    were   his    chosen 


DRIFT 

friends,— Tacitus,  Virgil,  Horace,  Pliny— each  was  be- 
loved. They  sufficed.  Now  and  then,  as  a  diversion,  a 
little  bout  with  the  early  English  poets, — he  was  con- 
sidered an  authority  on  Piers  Plowman. 

Josiah  was  happy  in  his  study,  and  that  was  much 
in  a  world  where  few  are  happy.  He  came  forth  at 
intervals  to  be  fed  and  was  particular  about  the  qual- 
ity of  food  presented  to  him;  he  also  slept  for  certain 
periods.  These  were  the  only  interruptions  to  a  life 
of  thought. 

He  was  impressive  to  look  upon.  Tall,  spare,  with 
a  dome-like  head  and  thin,  arched  nose;  he  habitually 
wore  a  black  frock-coat,  which  he  considered  the  only 
suitable  apparel  for  a  gentleman.  Into  the  breast  of 
this  coat  was  thrust  a  snow-white  handkerchief. 
It  was  always  snow-white,  it  was  always  thrust 
into  the  breast  of  his  coat,  so  the  effect,  it  would  seem, 
must  have  been  calculated.  The  thin,  brownish-grey 
hair  on  the  top  of  his  head  was  brushed  with  scrupulous 
care  to  have  a  little  upward  turn,  almost  like  a  curl,  and 
all  of  his  personal  habits  were  fastidiously  neat. 

When  he  met  the  guests  of  his  wife  and  daughter, 
he  would  express  pleased  surprise.  His  manners  were 
courtly  and  his  conversation  informing.  He  moved  in 
great  company,  communing  with  spirits  whose  mark 
had  been  made  upon  the  world. 

Now  and  then  a  professional-looking  personage  would 
journey  to  the  Staten  Island  cottage  to  visit  Mr.  Tucker, 
stay  for  a  meal  perhaps,  and  retire  with  him  to  the 
"study"  afterwards;  or,  Mr.  Tucker  himself,  after  men- 
tioning the  matter  a  number  of  times  as  liable  to  hap- 
pen in  the  near  future,  would  emerge,  brush  his  high 
silk  hat  and  worn  overcoat,  and  for  a  number  of  days 
would  be  seen  walking  to  the  eight  o  'clock  train  for  the 
purpose  of  reading  at  one  of  the  consulting  libraries  in 
the  city.    It  was  at  these  times,  trembling  like  guilty 

33 


DEIFT 

creatures,  his  wife  and  daughter  "  tidied  up"  the 
"study." 

Years  ago  there  had  been  an  impression  that  Mr. 
Tucker  was  reading  in  preparation  for  the  production 
of  a  book.  The  theory  still  held,  to  be  assigned  when 
necessary  to  enquiring  friends,  but  it  had  grown  myth- 
ical. Save  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  imbibing,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  adequate  reason  for  Mr.  Tucker's  ex- 
cessive absorption  of  the  classics. 

In  her  twenties,  Martha  Tucker  had  been  beautiful 
and  a  flirt.  Why  she  selected,  from  many  pretendents, 
the  even  then  erudite  person  who  asked  deferentially 
her  hand,  no  one  but  her  maker  ever  knew ;  nor  did  any 
one  ever  know  if  she  had  since  regretted  the  act.  The 
couple,  they  could  hardly  be  called  a  young  couple, 
since  Josiah  was  one,  had  between  them  a  modest  com- 
petence, enough  to  live  on,  and  it  became  apparent  soon 
after  their  marriage  that  Mr.  Tucker  did  not  expect  to 
augment  the  sum.  He  never  expressed  his  views  di- 
rectly, but  in  the  course  of  years  it  came  to  be  in- 
ferred that  he  considered  that  the  world  had  been  a 
more  attractive  place  a  number  of  years  ago  than  it 
was  at  the  present  date.  He  would  dwell  apart  from 
its  sordid  struggle. 

Helen  Tucker  had  grown  up  happily  in  her  mother's 
companionship.  At  the  age  of  fourteen,  her  father  made 
enquiries  as  to  the  progress  of  her  education.  Finding 
that  it  lacked  both  Latin  and  Greek,  he  was  seriously 
concerned.  After  a  period  of  consideration  on  the  sub- 
ject, he  gave  forth  that  for  the  next  six  years  he  would 
devote  twelve  hours  a  week  to  Helen's  instruction.  He 
did  so  and  proved  a  patient  and  painstaking  teacher. 
Helen  at  twenty  was  unusually  well  versed  in  both 
Greek  and  Latin  literature,  also  Piers  Plowman.  Thanks 
to  her  mother,  the  local  schools  and  a  quick  observation, 
she  had  acquired  a  number  of  things  besides.    She  was 

34 


DRIFT 

very  pretty  and  very  tender,  with  the  auroral  beauty  of 
healthy  youth. 

As  the  girl  entered,  tea  tray  in  hand,  the  mother's 
eyes  rested  upon  her  with  a  sense  of  profound  thankful- 
ness. Helen  was  sweet  and  fair  and  happy  and  hers — ■ 
poor,  childless  Emma  Endicott ! 

After  Helen  Tucker  had  fetched  "  just  a  tiny  bit  more 
hot  water,  please,  darling,  this  tea  is  so  good,"  she 
knelt  and  took  off  her  mother's  shoes. 

' '  That 's  good, ' '  murmured  the  tired  lady. 

Helen  sat  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  fire,  knocking  the 
shoes  together.  Her  face  looked  very  warm.  Finally  she 
said,  "Dr.  Arnold  was  here  today." 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Tucker,  and  the  word  seemed  to 
come  from  strange  depths. 

"I  told  him  I  would  marry  him."  Helen's  voice  was 
even  and  still.  "He  went  in  to  talk  to  Father.  Father 
is  pleased,  I  think." 

The  mother  sat  watching  her  daughter,  the  mother 
who  had  been  very  beautiful  and  of  whom  no  one  knew 
whether  she  wished  her  own  marriage  otherwise  or  no. 
She  could  not  formulate  her  thoughts.  Her  impulse 
was  to  cry  out,  to  take  the  girl  to  her  breast,  to  weep 
with  her  for  the  new  mystery  that  had  come  to  be ;  but 
Helen  sat  gazing  into  the  fire,  the  shoes  held  before  her. 

The  tears  brimmed  in  Martha  Tucker's  eyes.  She  held 
out  her  arms.  "My  very  dear!"  she  said,  and  then, 
holding  the  girl  from  her,  she  asked,  "Do  you  love 
him?  Oh  tell  me,  child,  do  you  love  him?  Do  you 
love  him  enough?" 

"Yes,  Mother."  Helen  lifted  her  eyes  steadily.  "I 
am  very  glad  that  I  said  yes. ' ' 

Mr.  Tucker  came  in  and  stood  gravely  regarding  the 
two  women.  "My  dear  wife,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  "you  may  be  well  content.  I  talked 
with  Dr.  Arnold  for  a  period  of  an  hour.     He  is  a 

35 


DRIFT 

gentleman  and  a  scholar.  Our  daughter  is  in  safe  hands. 
I  would  not  have  it  otherwise." 

Martha  Tucker  sobbed  and  clung  to  Helen.  In  that 
moment  it  came  to  her  that  perhaps  Helen  had  some- 
thing of  her  father  in  her,  she  seemed  so  strangely  calm. 
"A  gentleman  and  a  scholar" — oh,  yes,  Dr.  Arnold  was 
that,' — but  a  husband?  a  lover?  was  he  that  too?  Did 
Helen  know?  She  wanted  to  cry  out  the  question,  but 
she  was  dumb. 

The  mother  had  watched  the  grave  wooing  of  the  man 
thus  characterised  by  her  husband  as  a  "gentleman 
and  a  scholar. "  She  could  not  suppress  a  sense  of 
troubled  wonder. 

Dr.  Arnold  loved  Helen,  that  was  plain  from  the  first, 
and  he  was  attractive  in  a  well-bred,  intellectual  fashion. 
He  had  already  won  distinction  in  his  profession,  that 
of  a  physician,  and  as  he  had  independent  means, 
he  was  devoting  himself  more  and  more  to  writing  and 
to  research  work.  It  was  surprising,  Martha  Tucker 
told  herself,  that  such  a  man  should  seek  out  her  little 
country  lass.  Small  wonder  the  girl  was  dazzled,  it 
would  be  a  remarkably  "advantageous"  marriage,  and 
yet, — and  yet, — something  was  wrong,  very  wrong. 

In  Martha  Tucker's  rich  nature  was  a  vein  of  ro- 
mance that  had  been  kept  down — it  was  not  possible 
to  permit  the  surge  of  passionate  desire  to  take  pos- 
session of  the  woman  who  had  Josiah  Tucker  for  a 
husband.  In  Helen  she  saw  herself  again,  saw  her  own 
clamourous,  warm  youth — saw  what  its  needs  would 
be.  "Would  Dr.  Arnold's  thin  lips  be  capable  of  yield- 
ing kisses  such  as  Helen  would  give  and  ask?  What  if 
Helen  married  him  and  then  was  unsatisfied,  hungry 
with  the  profound  hunger  she  had  known,  what  then? 

Long  after  the  girl  was  asleep,  the  mother,  by  her 
bedside,  knelt  and  prayed,  "Oh  God,  make  my  little 

36 


DEIPT 

girl  happy,  make  my  little  girl  happy!  Let  her  not 
know  what  I  have  known !" 

In  the  morning,  looking  at  Helen's  bright  face,  she 
was  partly  reassured.  The  girl  seemed  tranquil,  full 
of  gay  talk;  she  looked  forward  to  her  lover's  coming 
in  the  afternoon. 

"Be  nice  to  him,  Mummie  dear,"  she  said.  "I  think 
he  is  more  afraid  of  you  than  of  Father." 

When  Dr.  Arnold  came,  Mrs.  Tucker  was  reminded 
of  her  husband's  phrase  again.  Yes,  he  was  both  a  gentle- 
man and  a  scholar,  of  that  there  could  be  no  question, 
and  unworldly  as  she  was,  she  would  not  have  been 
human  had  she  not  remembered  all  the  "advantages." 
She  watched  them  walk  away  together, — the  child  of 
her  youth,  of  her  happiness,  of  her  hopes  and  dreams — 
and  tried  to  still  the  ache  of  fear  that  persisted  in  her 
breast. 


CHAPTER    IV 

IT  is  May  in  Paris.  The  cold  and  snow  are  gone,  and 
the  city  basks  and  luxuriates  in  the  sunshine.  ''Give 
over  work  for  a  little  space  and  go  forth \"  cry  the 
Parisians.  Out  in  the  Bois  there  are  picnic  parties — hun- 
dreds of  happy  families  rolling  about  on  the  grass. 
Lunch  baskets  are  brought  out  and  unpacked  while  the 
children  range  themselves  in  a  starched  and  expectant 
circle.  Each  child  has  its  portion  of  good  red  wine, 
nicely  graduated  in  colour  as  to  age;  the  glass  of  tiny 
Jeanne  shows  only  a  faint  tinge  of  pink,  while  big 
Raoul,  with  his  bare  legs  getting  quite  hairy  above 
the  socks,  has  his  almost  as  red  as  father's.  After 
lunch  each  child  gathers  up  the  pieces  and  puts  all 
neatly  back  in  the  basket.  Father,  a  bit  rosy  and  warm, 
lies  down  to  nap  under  a  tree,  and  Mother  begins  to 
knit. 

At  the  near-by  restaurants,  with  their  lakes  and  flow- 
ers and  fluttering  tablecloths,  are  crowds  of  foreigners, 
no  less  happy  than  Father  Jacques  and  his  tumbling 
brood.  From  Brazil  these  come,  from  the  United  States, 
from  sober  England,  with  its  rain  and  heavy  bread, 
from  Africa  and  India  and  Borneo.  Here  is  an  Indian 
prince,  grave  of  mien,  gorgeous  of  raiment;  he  has 
brought  his  chief  wife  to  Paris  to  see  the  world,  but  she 
at  the  moment  is  wistfully  looking  out  of  the  hotel  win- 

38 


DRIFT 

dow  wondering  about  her  lord;  over  there  is  a  young 
English  duke,  whom  nobody  would  know  to  be  a  duke, 
he  is  so  simple  and  big  and  gay,  and  having  such  a 
very  pleasant  and  casual  time;  and  there,  at  one  of 
the  tables  set  close  to  the  water's  edge,  where  the  flowers 
are  doubled  by  reflection,  is  a  little  party  of  three,  a 
young  Calif ornian  and  two  American  ladies.  They  have 
just  come  back  from  the  races  and  are  now  watch- 
ing the  parti-coloured  throng  about  them,  greeting  a 
friend  now  and  then,  condoling  or  congratulating  on 
loss  or  gain. 

It  has  been  a  great  day, — Kosalie  has  won,  in  two 
events.  All  those  who  knew  that  she  would  are  pat- 
ting their  pockets  and  vowing  that  "she"  shall  not  get 
it  all  this  time,  and  all  those  who  haven't  are  carefully 
explaining  why. 

The  man  from  California,  whose  name  is  Robert 
Thorne,  is  watching  the  scene  with  keen  and  amused 
eyes.  The  girl  beside  him  laughs  a  little  at  his  eager- 
ness. He  is  like  a  child,  she  thinks,  looking  at  a  show. 
To  him  it  seems  pleasant  and  fantastic,  but  unreal,  un- 
true. 

Eileen's  heart  had  been  set  on  Paris  from  the  day 
she  came  home  from  Helena  House,  and  after  a  week 
at  the  Farm,  to  arrange  matters  for  her  absence,, 
Aunt  Emma  had  professed  herself  ready  to  sail. 

The  voyage  had  not  been  uneventful ;  it  had  developed 
the  young  Californian,  Robert  Thorne,  now  intent  upon 
becoming  permanent.  The  Paris  Herald  announced 
that  Miss  Emma  Endicott  of  New  York  and  Connecticut, 
and  her  niece,  Miss  Picardy,  had  arrived  at  the  Hotel 
Bristol;  friends,  flowers  and  invitations  followed,  and 
here  they  were,  drinking  tea  and  eating  strawberries 
in  the  Bois. 

Eileen  looked  very  lovely  as  she  sat  back  in  her 
39 


DEIFT 

chair,  her  parasol  across  her  knees.  Why  she  had 
chosen  to  wear  black  on  this  bright  day,  only  the  little, 
perverse  imp  that  dwelt  within  her  knew;  but  in  black 
she  was,  making  an  odd  and  distinguished  note  amidst 
the  flowers.  It  was  a  luminous  black,  soft  and  sinuous 
of  line;  on  her  small,  high  head  was  a  jetted  turban 
with  a  great  black  plume  at  the  side,  sweeping  back- 
wards over  her  hair,  almost  to  her  shoulder. 

After  a  little  they  were  hailed  by  an  old  friend,  Spen- 
cer Crockett,  "Eileen  Picardy,  by  all  the  saints !"  he 
cried.  "I  didn't  know  you  were  in  Paris.  The  last 
I  heard  you  were  at  Helena  House  being  serious.  Are 
you  serious  still,  might  one  enquire — these  clothes  !  How 
do  you  do,  Miss  Endicott,  what's  this  child  about?" 
He  shook  hands  cordially  with  each  of  them,  and  sent 
a  quick  glance  of  enquiry  at  Eileen  for  further  expla- 
nation than  the  name  "Mr.  Robert  Thorne  of  Califor- 
nia," as  pronounced  by  Aunt  Emma,  afforded. 
"Mayn't  I  join  you?"  he  asked,  turning  to  her.  "I'm 
all  alone — alone  in  Paris,"  and  forthwith  devoted  him- 
self to  the  aunt,  the  better  to  observe  from  the  corner 
of  his  eye  how  the  niece  comported  herself  in  regard  to 
the  rather  splendid-looking  person  by  her  side. 

Spencer  Crockett,  New  Yorker  born  and  bred,  lover 
of  pictures,  observer  of  people,  was  an  old  bachelor 
nearly  fifty-five.  One  would  not  guess  his  age  unless 
one  examined  the  fine  wrinkles  around  his  eyes,  caused 
by  years  of  amused  scrutiny  of  the  vagaries  of  his 
fellow-mortals.  He  was  tall  and  spare  and  correct. 
His  whitish  hair  was  brushed  consideringly  forward.  His 
eyes  were  swift  and  twinkled  at  the  world,  while  his 
little  slanting  smile  seemed  to  say,  "Come  now!  you 
know  that  isn't  so."  He  suffered  from  a  slight  nerv- 
ous affection  which  caused  him  to  wink  one  eye  at 
irregular  intervals.  This  infirmity  sometimes  punctuated 
his  remarks  with  a  sardonic  flavour,  and  may  have  been 

40 


DEIFT 

one  reason  for  his  bachelorhood, — it  would  be  difficult 
to  propose. 

He  had  one  great  passion, — pictures,  and  was  now  in 
Paris  to  look  about  and  see  what  was  happening.  When 
Spencer  Crockett  was  not  in  Paris  he  was  in  New  York. 
Occasionally,  if  Paris  were  cold,  he  journeyed  to  Rome, 
and  London  might  be  agreeable  for  a  few  weeks  in 
June ;  as  for  America,  he  was  unaware  there  were  other 
cities  than  New  York. 

Robert  Thome  had  just  discovered  Paris,  and  when 
at  home  was  under  the  impression  that  the  Atlantic 
'seaboard  yielded  little  in  comparison  to  the  rich  charms 
of  his  native  State. 

As  Crockett  turned  from  his  chat  with  Aunt  Emma 
for  a  word  with  Thorne,  Eileen  thought  the  two  men 
might  well  come  from  different  countries,  so  radically 
different  seemed  their  aspect  and  point  of  view. 

"It's  odd  to  see  everybody  having  such  a  lot  of  time — 
for  this  sort  of  thing,"  Thorne  was  saying,  "and  it 
is  all  so  finished,  so  well  done,  as  if  it  had  been  demanded 
for  years,  and  grown  to  perfection. ' ' 

* '  I  've  never  been  in  California, ' '  Crockett  replied.  ' '  I 
suppose  you  are  pretty  busy  out  there,  '  building  up  a 
new  country/  isn't  it  called?  It  sounds  exhausting 
to  me,  but  you  young  men  have  the  courage.  You've 
some  interesting  painter  chaps  in  your  country.  I 
like  Wendt's  work." 

Thorne  looked  blank.     "Wendt?"  he  asked. 

"Perhaps  he  exhibits  more  in  the  East  than  at  home/7 
Crockett  remarked.  "It's  often  the  case,  'not  without 
honour,'  you  know.  Pretty  good  painter,  I  think — 
those  great  spaces  are  thrilling.  They  make  me  want 
to  take  the  train  for  the  West,  only  I  always  seem  to 
find  myself  on  a  boat  instead." 

"Please  tell  me  about  him."  Thorne  was  interested 
41 


DRIFT 

at  once,  delighted  to  find  his  beloved  State  was  rep- 
resented in  art. 

As  Crockett  talked  lightly,  Eileen  watched  Robert 
Thorne,  and  Annt  Emma  watched  her;  the  guardian  in 
her  on  the  alert.  She  was  not  sure  she  approved  of 
Thorne.  He  was  rather  overwhelming.  His  rapid,  in- 
sistent ways  always  left  her  a  little  out  of  breath,  and 
he  lived  so  very  far  away!  Aunt  Emma  couldn't  seem 
to  think  of  California,  a  place  called  Los  Angeles  it 
was,  she  believed,  as  a  place  to  live  in.  She  wondered 
how  much  Eileen  liked  him.  She  was  certainly  flirting 
with  him  in  that  vexatious,  languid  way  she  had, — 
what  would  be  the  outcome?  Dimly  Aunt  Emma  felt 
that  Robert  Thorne  was  too  large  to  be  handled  lightly. 

"Miss  Picardy  has  kindly  taken  my  education  in 
hand."  Thorne  turned  to  Eileen,  adoration  in  his  eyes, 
a  caress  in  each  word  he  spoke.  "She's  been  good 
enough  to  show  me  about.  There's  a  good  deal  to  see, 
isn't  there,  when  one  arrives  for  the  first  time,  and,  of 
course,  when  one  hasn't  been  thinking  along  these  lines, 
it's  a  bit  overwhelming — but  Miss  Picardy  has  a  heav- 
enly patience?"  He  looked  at  his  beautiful  lady,  and 
touched  the  edge  of  the  lace  on  her  parasol. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Crockett!"  Eileen's  tone  was  serious,  "you 
really  know — about  pictures — won't  you  come  with  us, 
— with  Mr.  Thorne  and  me,  I  mean?  Then  we  might 
learn  something.  You  see,  he's  sure  to  like  all  the 
wrong  things,  and  I  can't  'make  him  see  -why  he* 
shouldn't." 

"Oh,  do  go,  Mr.  Crockett,"  Aunt  Emma  urged.  "In 
all  the  visits  we've  made  to  Paris,  I've  never  been  able 
to  persuade  Eileen  to  go  to  the  Louvre.  She  always 
said  it  was  dull,  and  now  she's  teaching  Mr.  Thorne 
about  art!" 

Eileen  laughed  with  the  others.  "Cruel  Auntie! 
It  always  was  dull  when  I  was  being  instructed.    Im- 

42 


DRIFT 

agine  it!"  she  turned  to  the  two  men,  her  hands  out, 
< '  being  led  along  by  a  governess  and  told  what  to  think. 
[Now,  Mr.  Thorne  never  by  any  chance  thinks  as  I  tell 
him  to.  It  makes  it  much  more  interesting.  Mr.  Crock- 
ett, please  explain  why  he  mustn't  stand  in  front  of 
the  Eubens.  He  will  do  it  every  day.  He  says  they 
remind  him  of  Calif ornia. ' ' 

Crockett  laughed  amusedly.  "Mr.  Thorne,"  he  said, 
"you're  the  man  I  want,  an  unspoiled  spirit  at  last! 
Will  you  give  me  your  criticism  on  some  pictures  I'm 
thinking  of  buying?  They're  by  a  queer  duck  named 
Gaugin.  Let's  drop  the  Louvre  for  something  a  bit 
more  recent.    Will  you  come  tomorrow?" 

"And  leave  me  out?"  cried  Eileen,  "how  outrag- 
eous!" 

"You'd  interrupt."  Crockett's  tone  was  firm.  "Miss 
Endicott,  do  take  the  child  dressmaking.  I'd  like  Mr. 
Thome's  opinion  uninfluenced  by  her  *  instructions.' 
"She's  too  young  to  go  delving  into  Gaugin,  let  her  stick 
to  the  Salon  Carre." 

Crockett  had  known  Eileen  all  her  life,  and  thought 
it  was  good  for  her  soul  to  treat  her  thus;  she  re- 
ceived far  too  much  kowtowing.  Moreover,  it  amused 
him  to  catch  Thome's  shocked  expression  at  such  flip- 
pancy towards  his  goddess.  Crockett's  remark  had 
been  most  innocently  intended;  he  merely  wished  to 
create  a  diversion  and  see  what  would  happen,  but  a 
sudden  wink  as  he  turned  to  Thorne  gave  it  a  bewil- 
dering significance. 

Thorne  turned  to  Eileen.  It  was  a  plot  to  separate 
him  from  her!  It  must  be  nipped.  Who  in  the  world 
was  this  strange  person  trying  to  establish  secret  com- 
munication with  him?    He  made  no  circumlocution. 

"I  should  rather  go  with  Miss  Picardy  tomorrow, 
;if  she  will  let  me,"  he  said  gravely,  and  Crockett  threw 
*up  his  hands. 

43 


DEIFT 

"The  triumph  of  beauty  over  wisdom,' '  he  cried. 
''When  was  it  not  so?  Miss  Endicott,  will  you  go  with 
me  while,  these  two  wander  together  in  classic  halls  and 
admire  Rubens  from  their  state  of  innocence ?" 

Eileen  was  vexed  underneath  her  smiles.  She  wished 
Thorne  was  not  such  a  big  boy.  Was  Crockett  laugh- 
ing at  him?    She  wished  Crockett  had  not  come. 

The  crowd  about  them  was  thinning  out  and  lights 
were  twinkling.  Aunt  Emma  rose,  announcing  depar- 
ture. As  they  neared  the  hotel,  Thorne  grew  grave. 
He  did  not  know  what  was  going  to  happen  to  him  on 
the  morrow.  He  wanted  to  throttle  the  bland  person 
with  white  hair  and  a  wink  who  sat  on  the  seat  be- 
side him,  taking  all  of  Eileen's  attention  with  talk  he 
did  not  understand.  He  looked  at  her  beseechingly  as 
they  parted,  but  Eileen's  lids  were  lowered,  she  would 
promise  nothing.  Robert  Thorne  passed  a  miserable 
night. 

In  the  morning  flowers  and  a  note  failed  to  placate 
the  worshipped  one.  She  would  not  go  with  him,  nor 
would  she  promise  anything  ahead.  Something  had 
happened,  he  did  not  know  what  it  was. 

Again  Thorne  experienced  murderous  (feelings  to- 
wards Crockett  and  declined  that  gentleman's  renewed 
proposals  for  a  picture  feste  together. 

Crockett  chuckled.  He  liked  Thorne, — af  Eileen  could 
be  deflected  by  such  slight  means,  the  big  Californian 
would  be  saved  much  pain. 

More  flowers  arrived  at  the  Bristol,  this  time  with 
Crockett's  card,  a  box  for  Miss  Endicott  as  well,  and 
pleasant  invitations.  Crockett  was  a  delicate  inter- 
rupter, never  obtrusive,  but  nis  spirit  hovered  over  the 
next  trip  to  the  Louvre,  accomplished  a  few  days  later 
by  Thome's  persistent  effort,  and  his  wink  seemed  to 
accompany  all  of  Eileen's  nonsensical  instruction.  More- 
over, the  expression  in  Thome's  eyes,  and  about  his 

44 


DRIFT 

mouth  had  become  disquieting.  She  wanted  to  run 
away. 

Eileen  complained  to  Aunt  Emma  that  Paris  was 
growing  warm.  Why  not  rent  a  villa  somewhere  by 
the  sea?  She  had  been  to  see  an  agent — it  was  quite 
feasible.     There  were  lots  to  be  had. 

"Dear,  dear  J"  said  Aunt  Emma,  "I  hadn't  thought 
of  a  villa.  It  seems  very  pleasant  here.  Do  you  think 
a  villa  is  what  we  want?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Eileen,  "but  let's  try  it.  It 
isn't  a  very  original  plan,  I  admit,  but  better  than 
Switzerland."  A  little  smile  lighted  her  face  as  she 
added,  "You  see,  I'm  sticking  to  the  'ways  of  my 
tribe.'  " 

Aunt  Emma  thought  the  plan  a  good  one  on  the 
whole;  better  than  hotels  and  that  tiresome  chicken 
and  lettuce  and  haricots  verts  you  got  every  night  ev- 
erywhere. 

"Let's  go  tomorrow,"  said  Eileen.  Aunt  Emma 
jumped,  but  had  no  valid  objections  to  suggest.  Clothes 
could  be  sent  on,  she  supposed. 


CHAPTER  V, 

WHEN  they  arrived  a  pretty  scene  greeted  them, — 
a  rambling  stone  house,  bright  with  window  boxes 
of  flowering  plants ;  in  front  of  their  drawing-room  win- 
dows an  elaborate  garden,  and  beyond,  the  sea.  Eileen 
walked  through  the  house  with  a  little  glance  around 
at  the  gay  chintz-covered  furniture,  out  past  the  geo- 
metric flower  beds,  through  a  little  gate,  and  following 
a  path  outside,  soon  came  to  the  water's  edge. 

She  sat  down  in  a  rock-sheltered  cove  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  content.  One  should  be  able  to  think  out 
one's  problems  here.  She  wanted  to  find  out  what  she 
thought  of  this  strong  and  vivid  personality  that  had 
suddenly  become  wholly  hers.  His  image  came  before 
her ;  yes,  he  was  good  to  look  at.  She  wondered  why,  for 
he  was  rather  homely.  Was  it  his  broad  shoulders  and 
the  way  he  held  his  head,  thrown  back  a  little;  was  it 
his  ready  laugh  and  the  quick  fun  with  which  he  poured 
forth  his  voluble  and  atrocious  French ;  was  it  his  hands, 
which  were  large  and  strong  and  brown  and  extremely 
well  cared  for;  was  it  his  eyes  with  their  steady  gaze 
of  absorption  in  whatever  interested  him? 

She  thought  of  all  these  things  and  then  of  their 
talks  together  on  shipboard.  What  made  this  man  so 
different  from  others  she  had  known?  He  had  be- 
wildered her  at  times  by  telling  of  traction  companies 

4S 


DEIFT 

and  water-power  plants,  of  his  efforts  with  alder- 
men and  state  legislators  to  get  through  certain  large 
plans  which  must  ultimately  come  about  because  "the 
people  needed  them."  Through  all  his  talk  ran  a  feel- 
ing of  breadth,  as  if  his  vision  reached  out  and  be- 
yond the  needs  of  himself  or  his  fellows.  He  was  look- 
ing far  ahead,*  this  man  of  the  West,  planning  for 
what  should  come  after  he  himself  was  dead. 

As  she  had  listened,  Eileen  had  felt  lifted  into  a 
larger  world  of  activity  and  endeavour,  of  which  she 
knew  little  and  wished  she  might  know  more.  His 
name  was  like  himself,  decisive  and  quickly  said, — 
Robert  Thorne.  Well,  it  would  not  be  long  before  Robert 
Thome  would  be  there  with  her,  asking  his  question, 
and  she  would  have  to  find  out  what  she  thought  about 
him,  and  about  herself  in  relation  to  him.  He  would 
want  his  answer  at  once,  as  he  wanted  everything,  and 
if  his  ways  in  Paris  shops  and  restaurants  were  any 
guide,  he  would  obtain  it.  She  knew  that  one  way 
or  another,  she  must  decide,  and  she  did  not  want  to 
decide  yet.  She  wondered  how  she  would  bear  trans- 
planting to  the  West,  whether  such  an  "experiment" 
would  turn  out  better  than  lesser  ventures.  She  would 
have  to  revolutionize  all  her  thoughts,  could  she  do  that  ? 
Did  she  want  it  ?  Robert  Thorne  \s  views  on  poetry  were 
akin  to  his  admirations  in  the  Louvre.  She  remembered 
one  night  on  shipboard  when,  in  telling  a  ranch  story, 
he  had  been  reminded  of  a  poem  of  Lindsay  Gordon  % 
and  recited  it  in  his  rich  voice  with  considerable  dra- 
matic power.  He  had  then  added  the  information  that 
Gordon  was  his  favourite  poet,  next  to  Moore.  Eileen 
had  made  a  funny  little  face  to  herself  in  the  dark- 
ness. It  was  curious  how  his  ignorance  both  delighted 
and  exasperated  her.  He  had  spoken  once  of  his  class 
day  at  Harvard.  She  wondered  how  four  years  at  that 
sacred  place  could  produce  so  slight  an  effect, 

47 


DRIFT 

After  an  hour  or  so  of  wondering,  but  with  her  mind 
no  nearer  what  she  wanted  to  do,  Eileen  finally  wan- 
dered back  to  the  villa,  where  Aunt  Emma  was  giving 
directions  in  her  funny  French.   She  was  quite  cross. 

"I  really  wish  you  wouldn't  go  off  like  that  when 
there's  so  much  to  do,"  she  said.  "How  am  I  to  know 
what  room  you  wantf  All  the  trunks  are  there  in  the 
hall  waiting  for  you  to  decide,  and  I  can't  understand 
a  single  word  that  man  says."  She  pointed  to  a  large, 
blue-smocked  individual  standing  cap  in  hand  by  the 
door.  He  smiled  and  made  some  more  remarks  in  a 
patois  quite  unintelligible.  "There,  didn't  I  tell  you?" 
said  Aunt  Emma,  "I  think  he's  the  gardener.  Oh  do 
go  upstairs  and  see  about  the  rooms.  There  must  be 
ten,  but  they're  not  all  on  the  sea  side.  I'm  all  un- 
packed. ' p 

Descending  later,  Eileen  found  Aunt  Emma  dressed  for 
dinner  and  quite  calm.  She  had  established  herself  in 
an  easy  chair  with  a  reading  lamp.  An  infinitesimal  fire 
of  twigs  was  crackling  on  the  hearth.  The  furniture 
had  been  pulled  about  and  a  few  embroideries  and 
photographs  installed.  The  room  looked  as  if  it  were 
inhabited  and  Eileen  glanced  about  appreciatively. 
"How  do  you  do  it?"  she  asked.  "You've  a  genius  for 
hominess,  Auntie  dear.  What  should  I  do  without 
you?" 

"I  like  to  be  comfortable,"  Aunt  Emma  replied,  "and 
this  seems  like  a  nice  house.  It  was  a  great  risk  taking 
it  in  that  crazy  way  without  the  slightest  idea  whether 
it  was  damp  or  not,  just  because  there  was  a  view. 
I'm  glad  it's  turned  out  so  well.  Is  that  young  man 
coming  down  here  soon  I ' ' 

Eileen  laughed,  "I  dare  say!"  Aunt  Emma  looked 
at  her  and  gave  a  little  grunt. 

Life  was  pleasantly  and  easily  arranged  at  the  villa 
48 


DRIFT 

by  the  sea,  also  very  tranquil.  There  were  oc- 
casional calls  from  the  surrounding  gentry,  acquaint- 
ances appeared  at  near-by  hotels,  various  summer 
amusements  were  arranged, — still  there  were  many  un- 
occupied hours,  when  books  seemed  the  only  resource. 

Eileen  spent  long  afternoons  by  herself  in  the  gar- 
den or  on  the  rocks,  sometimes  reading,  sometimes 
dreaming.  She  would  come  back  to  the  house  slow  of 
step,  her  thoughts  drifting  back  to  the  old  unhappy 
questions  that  troubled  her.  It  was  the  time  when 
Strindberg  first  sent  his  genius-tinted  poison  through 
the  world.  She  read  one  book  and  sent  for  others,  de- 
vouring them  with  wonder  and  horror  and  increasing 
fascination. 

Next  came  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  latest  novels,  ob- 
tained at  the  local  bookstore,  so  cleverly  written  they 
delighted  her,  but  presenting  a  view  of  life  she  could 
not  comprehend.  Its  romantic  sentimentalism  was  as 
far  removed  from  her  experience  as  had  been  the  sick- 
ening incident  at  the  settlement.  She  had  never  been 
a  reader,  now  books  meant  to  her  only  a  possible  avenue 
to  further  knowledge  of  life, — of  that  great,  mystifying 
experience  that  lay  before  her,  to  the  door  of  which 
she  could  not  find  the  key. 

She  wondered  what  Robert  Thorne  would  say  to 
Strindberg,  imagining  how  impatiently  he  would  cast 
him  aside.  She  felt  that  Thome's  big  outlook  would 
not  take  in  or  be  affected  by  the  intricate  pain  of  the 
great  Swede. 

After  spending  a  forenoon  with  several  of  the  books 
Eileen  had  been  reading,  and  a  French  dictionary,  Aunt 
Emma  was  moved  to  protest. 

She  had  found  herself  quite  unable  to  take  her  usual 
nap  after  lunch,  so  strong  was  the  conviction  upon  her 
that  this  form  of  reading  was  very  unwholesome.  At 
about  three  she  set  out  to  find  Eileen,  who  had  disap- 

49 


DRIFT 

peared  for  the  afternoon.  After  an  .uncomfortable 
scramble  she  found  the  girl,  perched  in  her  favourite 
place  on  the  rocks. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  as  soon  as  I  get  my  breath," 
announced  Aunt  Emma,  plumping  down. 

"Why,  Auntie,  dear!"  Eileen  exclaimed,  rolling  her 
coat  for  a  cushion.  "You  are  all  tired  out!  There, 
is  that  better?  Whatever  do  you  want  to  talk  to  me 
about  that  couldn't  wait  till  tea-time?" 

"Those  books,"  said  Aunt  Emma,  pointing  to  the 
yellow-bound  volumes  on  the  rocks.  "I  couldn't  wait, 
because  I  had  been  reading  some  of  them  this  morning, 
some  you  threw  away.  I  didn't  get  on  very  fast,  I  had 
to  look  up  so  many  words,  but  I  read  enough  to  see 
they  are  not  the  proper  reading  for  a  young  girl.  I 
came  out  here  to  ask  if  you  would  burn  them.  I  got 
to  thinking  about  them  when  I  lay  down  to  take  my 
nap,  and  I  wanted  to  see  you  at  once."  Aunt  Emma's 
cheeks  were  pink,  her  words  came  fast.  She  seemed 
afraid  to  let  herself  be  answered. 

Eileen  picked  up  the  book,  and  turned  the  leaves. 
"It  is  rather  nasty,"  she  said,  "but  what  have  I  got 
to  do?" 

Aunt  Emma  seemed  relieved.  "I  was  afraid  you'd 
think  I  was  interfering,"  she  said.  "I'm  so  glad  you 
don't  mind,  and  you  will  give  them  up?" 

"Did  I  say  I  would?"  mused  Eileen.  "I  thought  I 
only  asked  what  else  there  was  to  do." 

' '  Surely  there  are  better  books  to  be  had !  You  could 
send  to  some  library,  or  to  London, — you  will,  won't 
you,  darling?  I  wouldn't  ask  it  if  I  didn't  feel  very 
strongly  on  the  subject." 

"It  might  be  a  good  idea  to  send  to  London,"  said 
Eileen,  "but  are  you  sure  these  books  are  all  bad? 
You  know  I'm  grown  up,  and  I  want  to  find  out  about 
things, — about  life." 

50 


DRIFT 

"Oh,  my  child!  you  mustn't  think  those  horrid  books 
represent  life." 

'  'Well,  the  people  who  wrote  them  thought  they  did, 
I  suppose!  There  are  a  good  many  sides  to  life!"  A 
vision  of  Victoria  came  over  her.  "I  want  to  find 
out,  oh,  I  do  want  so  terribly  to  find  out, — and  I  can't !" 

"Won't  you  -yield  to  my  judgment,  then?"  Aunt 
Emma  went  on.  "I  am  much  older  than  you,  you  know, 
and  I  am  sure  I  know  best." 

"You  are  a  dear  Auntie,"  Eileen  answered,  "and 
very  thoughtful  to  be  so  concerned,  and  now  don't  let's 
talk  about  it  any  more.  I  have  had  it  in  mind  to  re- 
turn the  visit  of  those  pleasant  French  people.  It 
isn't  four  yet,  what  do  you  say  to  going  today?  Don't 
worry  any  more  about  the  books,  will  you?  I'll  come 
to  no  harm.  Let's  get  rid  of  this  one."  She  climbed 
quickly  up  onto  the  highest  point  of  rock  and  calling 
"one,  two,  three,  go!"  flung  the  volume  into  the  sea. 
It  fell  into  a  pool  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff  and  was 
tossed  to  and  fro  by  the  incoming  tide. 

"Watch  'the  moving  waters  at  their  priest-like  task,'  " 
said  Eileen,  skipping  down  from  her  high  perch.  "Now 
come,  Auntie  dear,  let's  do  our  duty  to  the  ancient  no- 
bility of  France.  Don't  hurry,  it's  easy  to  turn  an 
ankle." 

Aunt  Emma  was  thoughtful  as  she  picked  her  way 
back.  She  was  not  sure  that  Eileen  had  agreed  to  do 
as  she  had  asked. 

Eileen  wondered  when  Thorne  would  come.  In  his 
last  letter  he  had  spoken  of  finishing  up  certain  mat* 
ters  before  he  left  Paris,  so  as  to  have  more  free 
time  when  he  came.  She  read  the  letter  over  again 
and  thought  that  he  iseemed  very  sure.  Well!  let 
him  come,  perhaps  she  would  say  "yes."  It  would 
be  good  to  end  all  this  restless  searching  about  by  some- 
thing definite. 

51 


DRIFT 

One  morning  she  was  awakened  by  the  maid,  bearing 
a  telegram.  It  read,  "Called  home  by  my  brother's 
death,  sailing  Saturday,"  and  then  the  words,  "May  I 
hope?" 

Eileen  dropped  back  on  her  pillows.  What  was  to 
be  said  to  such  an  extraordinary  question  made  in 
such  an  extraordinary  way?  Seeing  the  maid  waiting 
with  pencil  and  paper  for  her  answer,  she  began  to 
laugh,  but  the  laugh  turned  into  a  sound  like  a  child 
crying.  All  at  once  Thorne  seemed  to  her  remote  and 
impossible.  She  had  counted  on  his  presence,  on  the 
magnetism  of  his  quick  laugh  and  his  big,  swift,  attrac- 
tive way  of  doing  things,  and  now  he  was  going  far 
away  with  only  this  imperative  question.  What  should 
she  do?  She  couldn't  telegraph  back  "yes,"  and  let 
him  go  on  that  long  journey  feeling  sure  of  her,  and 
yet  what  could  she  say  in  a  telegram  that  would  not 
imply  a  promise  ?  She  had  felt  that  he  would  demand  his 
answer  with  no  uncertain  voice,  but  she  had  not  dreamed 
it  would  be  like  this;  and  there  stood  the  maid  with 
the  pencil  and  paper! 

After  a  little  she  scrawled,  "Terribly,  terribly  sorry, 
writing  to  steamer"  and  pushed  the  paper  into  the 
woman's  hands.  She  had  a  few  hours  at  least,  and  set 
to  work  composing  a  letter  that  was  several  pages 
long,  but  which  contained  no  more  than  the  telegram. 

Thorne  read  it  the  next  day  in  front  of  the  purser's 
office,  where  he  stood  scowling  and  blocking  the  passage- 
way. Then  he  took  it  up  on  deck  and  read  it 
again,  then  he  sought  the  writing-room  and  remained 
there  the  rest  of  the  day,  pouring  forth  his  heart  to 
the  woman  to  whom  he  had  given  it, — the  delicate,  dark 
creature  whom  he  at  times  wanted  to  hurt  and  crush, 
and  at  times  longed  to  bend  himself  before,  as  in  an  act 
of  worship.  He  had  had  his  love  affairs,  but  not  like 
this — he  must  have  this  girl,  or  the  world  and  all  the 

52 


DRIFT 

aims  and  purposes  on  which  he  had  been  intent  would  be 
as  nothing ;  so  he  sat,  pouring  out  his  passion,  the  heart 
and  soul  of  him  absorbed  in  his  task. 

By  the  time  Thome's  letter  reached  her,  Eileen  had 
decided  that  adventuring  forth  with  him  into  the  West 
was  not  for  her.  It  was  hard  writing  to  tell  him  this, 
for  his  letter  was  full  of  eager  hope,  but  finally  the 
answer  was  sent  and  Robert  Thorne  went  his  way  alone. 
Eileen  thought  of  him  more  than  she  had  of  any  of  his 
predecessors.  Once  or  twice  during  the  long  summer 
she  almost  wrote  again,  so  strong  was  the  desire  not 
to  lose  the  stimulus  of  his  friendship,  but  letters  were 
not  what  she  wanted.  It  was  the  man  himself  who  had 
stirred  her.  She  wanted  his  physical  presence,  and 
his  written  words,  passionate  though  they  were,  failed 
to  touch  her  in  the  same  way.  She  wondered  why  she 
could  not  yield.  What  was  it  that  she  wanted?  She 
did  not  know. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SPENCER  CROCKETT  had  urged  that  the  child  be 
taken  on  a  visit  to  the  dressmaker  as  a  means  of 
keeping  her  occupied.  He  had  a  vague  idea  that  seances 
with  dressmakers  took  place  in  Paris  among  ladies,  but 
grasped  little  of  the  significance  of  his  words.  Pastime 
indeed !  All  of  the  time  not  spent  wandering  in  the  Bois, 
or  visiting  the  galleries  with  Thorne,  had  been  taken 
up  in  absorbed  consideration  of  this  important  subject. 

Like  other  fine  works  of  art,  Eileen's  clothes  seemed 
inevitable,  but  in  reality  were  procured  at  the  cost  of 
time,  labour,  and  weariness  of  body  and  spirit.  She 
was  likely  to  advance  her  own  ideas,  resulting  in  serious 
differences  of  opinion.  Aunt  Emma  never  interefered 
in  this  realm.  Recognising  in  her  niece  the  artist's 
touch,  she  contentedly  acquired  her  own  patterns  in 
black  and  white  with  many  little  bows  and  left  Eileen 
to  differ  with  those  who  served  her,  alone. 

The  girl  had  a  face  and  figure  that  caused  smiles 
of  pleasure  to  the  creators  of  costumes,  upon  whose 
skill  and  patience  she  later  made  such  heavy  demands. 
She  gave  the  impression  of  extreme  slenderness,  yet 
there  was  about  her  no  effect  of  angularity.  Her  bones 
were  small  and  the  flesh  over  them  delicately  rounded. 
People  sometimes  used  the  word  "oriental"  in  describ- 
ing her,  for  her  eyes  were  set  obliquely,  and  her  brown 
hair  grew  very  low  on  her  forehead.    At  the  temples 

§4  " 


DRIFT 

there  were  little  peaks  that  came  near  her  eyebrows. 
Her  mouth  belied  the  upper  part  of  her  face.  It  was 
thin-lipped  and  straight,  with  small,  white  teeth.  Her 
head  was  small  and  set  on  a  long  neck,  and  she  held  it 
high,  giving  her  a  slightly  disdainful  look,  which  her 
gracious  ways  offset. 

Was  she  beautiful?  It  was  hard  to  say;  peculiar  and 
arresting  she  certainly  was,  and  she  knew  with  an  un- 
erring sense  what  to  put  on.  No  one  else  could  pos- 
sibly have  worn  her  clothes.  They  were  of  odd,  soft 
stuffs  in  dull  gleaming  colours,  with  long  lines  that  clung 
and  shaped  themselves  to  the  grace  of  her  slender  hips. 
She  was  fond  of  girdles  of  heavy  stones  that  seemed 
to  make  the  one  necessary  note  of  colour,  and  of  ear- 
rings, small  and  exquisite,  that  made  one  think  of  Cleo- 
patra. 

Beautiful  or  not,  where  Eileen  was,  lovers  succeeded 
each  other  like  the  ghosts  in  "  Macbeth/ '  and  were  apt 
to  be  left  as  pale.  It  was  not  long  before  a  polite 
and  silent  young  Frenchman  showed  signs  that  the 
ancient  passion  was  stirring  in  his  breast.  Its  expres- 
sion was  ceremonious,  even  obscure.  He  came  to  call 
every  Wednesday  afternoon,  and  asked  for  the  ladies, 
presenting  two  cards.  His  visits  were  something  of 
a  trial  to  Aunt  Emma.  They  grew  longer  and  longer 
as  the  summer  advanced. 

One  day,  as  she  was  taking  her  nap,  a  single  card 
was  brought  to  "Mees  Endicott"  with  the  information 
that  it  was  presented  by  the  father  of  "Monsieur  Gas- 
ton/ '  who  desired,  if  possible,  an  interview.  Aunt 
Emma  was  greatly  concerned.  She  read  the  card  again. 
"Comte  Bernardine  Marie  Gaston  Leroux  de  Barsac," 
it  ran. 

She  bore  down  upon  Eileen,  card  in  hand.  "Well, 
what  do  you  want  me  to  say  to  him?"  she  said.  "Do 
you  like  that  young  Frenchman  who  stays  so  long? 

55 


DRIFT 

I  suppose  his  father  has  come  to  make  arrangements. 
There 's  no  use  my  talking  to  him  unless  you're  think- 
ing about  him  seriously.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
is  to  be  said.    It's  absurd,  his  coming  like  this." 

No,  Eileen  was  not  thinking  about  him  seriously; 
not  thinking  about  him  at  all,  in  fact.  Why  should  she  1 
She  saw  him  only  once  a  week,  and  he  had  never  said 
a  word. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Aunt  Emma,  "but  what's  to 
be  done  now?    His  father  is  downstairs." 

A  vision  of  Thorne  came  to  Eileen's  mind.  How  dif- 
ferent were  the  ways  of  wooing  in  California  and 
France — yet,  there  was  a  look  in  the  young  French- 
man's eye  as  he  solemnly  conversed  that  resembled 
Thome's  expression. 

"Well,  go  down  and  see  him  anyway,"  said  Eileen, 
**I  certainly  can't.  You'd  better  find  out  what  he  has 
to  say." 

Aunt  Emma  moved  dubiously  stairwards.  The  mis- 
sion was  not  at  all  to  her  liking. 

"Tell  him  I've  no  dot,"  was  Eileen's  parting  in- 
junction. 

Comte  Bernardine  Marie  Gaston  Leroux  de  Barsac 
made  a  low  bow  as  Aunt  Emma  entered,  and  lifted  her 
hand  to  his  lips.  He  was  a  stately  gentleman  and  wore 
a  tightly  buttoned  frock-coat  of  ceremony.  It  all  seemed 
very  grave.  After  they  were  both  seated  he  lost  no  time 
in  announcing  the  purpose  of  his  visit,  in  excellent  Eng- 
lish. This  was  a  great  relief.  Aunt  Emma  felt  a  little 
more  able  to  cope  with  the  situation. 

"My  son  Gaston  entertains  a  very  high  regard  for 
your  niece,  Mademoiselle  Picardy,"  he  began.  "I  am 
come  at  his  request  to  enquire  if  his  suit  be  agreeable  to 
you,  and  to  answer  any  questions  which  you  may  wish 
to  put  to  me  about  him." 

He  looked  expectantly  at  her,  but  Aunt  Emma,  find- 
66 


DRIFT 

ing  no  questions  at  hand,  was  silent.  The  Count  con- 
tinued gravely: 

"I  think  I  may  assure  you  that  my  son  is  an  hon- 
ourable gentleman.  His  character  is  completely  unim- 
peachable.''  He  evidently  considered  these  last  words 
impressive,  for  he  repeated  them  slowly,  "completely 
unimpeachable.' 9 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  "Yes,"  said  Aunt  Emma. 
"Yes;  you  must  be  very  glad  of  that." 

Comte  de  Barsac  stopped,  bowed  slightly,  and  con- 
tinued his  discourse  with  a  less  confident  air.  "I  djo 
not  know  what  plans  you  may  entertain  for  your  niece. 
If  the  pretensions  of  my  son  are  unwelcome,  it  is  only 
necessary  to  state  the  fact." 

Aunt  Emma  was  troubled  lest  she  had  been  rude. 
After  all,  this  serious  and  embarrassing  person  was  do- 
ing them  an  honour.  "Oh,  not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  she 
said.    "He  is  a  most  agreeable  young  man." 

"Then  I  may  venture  to  hope  that  you  would  like  to 
hear  a  little  more  about  him?"  the  Count  enquired. 

Aunt  Emma  was  not  in  the  least  desirous  of  hearing 
more  about  Monsieur  Gaston  Leroux,  but  there  seemed 
no  help  for  it,  so  she  assented  with  a  little  bow. 

The  Count  cleared  his  throat  and  began.  He  stated 
his  own  parentage  and  that  of  the  Countess,  his  wife. 
He  related  the  circumstances  of  their  marriage;  passed 
lightly  over  Gaston's  infancy,  which  he  hoped  would 
be  understood  had  been  exceptionally  healthy;  recited 
Gaston's  accomplishments  at  the  Lycee,  and  spoke  of 
his  honourable  military  service.  It  all  seemed,  as  he 
stated,  unimpeachable ;  how  was  she  ever  going  to  make 
the  man  stop? 

Arriving  at  a  period  in  his  recital  when  Gaston  was 
twenty-two,  the  Count  seemed  to  find  a  slight  difficulty. 
He  coughed  once  or  twice,  and  glanced  about  the  room. 
"It  will  be  understood,"  he  observed,  "that  we  had  our 

.51 


DRIFT 

anxiety.  His  mother  and  I  were  naturally  most  anxious 
that — that  he  should  show  discretion,  that  he  should  find 
someone  quite — he  was  much  away  from  home.  We  did 
not  know.  We  urged  him  to  be  extremely  careful.  We 
had  brought  him  up  well;  he  was  virgin  up  to  this 
time." 

The  Count  was  intent  upon  his  tale;  he  failed  to 
note  the  queer  sound  Aunt  Emma  made  in  her  throat. 
She  had  turned  herself  in  her  chair  and  sat  gazing  at 
him  with  a  terrified  expression.    The  Count  went  on : 

"I  said  that  he  was  much  away  from  home.  You  can 
imagine  that  we  were  greatly  relieved  when  informed  by 
our  son  of  his  affection  for  a  young  woman  who  was 
both  amiable  and  healthy.  He  assured  us  that  he  was 
very  happy;  it  seemed  an  excellent  arrangement.  There 
were,  fortunately,  no — complications,  none  whatever. 
She  is  now  quite  happily  married.  We  were  thank- 
ful it  all  turned  out  so  well.  Parents  have  many 
anxieties,  Madame.  You  will  understand  what  pleas- 
ure I  have  in  presenting  my  son  to  you  with  such  an 
excellent  record.  This  all  happened  some  time  ago,  since 
then  Gaston  is  chaste.  He  is  a  romanticist,  our  Gaston, 
he  must  love, — his  thoughts  are  high — he  would  rather 
suffer  and  be  alone  than — We  are  proud  of  our  Gaston. ' ' 
The  father's  eyes  were  dim.  He  seemed  deeply  af- 
fected. "I  have  told  you  all,  Madame.  What  is  your 
verdict  ?" 

Aunt  Emma  looked  to  the  right  and  to  the  left.  She 
looked  out  of  the  window  and  out  of  the  door,  and  found 
no  word.  She  desired  to  be  polite,  recognising  that  she 
was  dealing  with  the  customs  of  other  lands,  but  it  was 
beyond  her.  All  the  blood  of  her  New  England  ancestry 
rose  up  in  her  breast:  it  crept  into  her  cheeks  and 
made  them  burn,  it  crept  into  her  voice  and  made  it 
icy. 

"I  have  no  doubt,  Monsieur,"  she  finally  managed  to 
58 


DRIFT 

articulate,  ''that  the  character  of  your  son  is  'completely 
unimpeachable '  (was  it  possible  Aunt  Emma  intended 
to  be  caustic?),  but  unfortunately,  as  I  have  endeav- 
oured once  or  twice  to  say,  only  you  would  not  listen, 
my  niece  cannot  consider  this  plan  at  all, — in  short — 
she  is  not — not  at  all  interested  in  Monsieur  Gaston— 
not  at  all  attracted  I  mean —  Our  talking  this  way, 
don't  you  see,  is  quite  useless — quite  unnecessary. " 
She  came  to  a  full  stop. 

Comte  de  Barsac  listened  with  the  deepest  attention. 
"May  I  ask  one  question ?"  he  said.  "Mademoiselle 
Eileen — she  is — ?  You  have  arranged  something — you 
have  in  mind  a  little  plan  perhaps  ?" 

"No,  no,  certainly  not." 

"Well  then— 1"  He  threw  out  his  hands.  "A  little 
time  would  help, — if  she  understood  the  deep  affection 
of  my  son  Gaston?" 

Aunt  Emma  Endicott  became  desperate.  ' '  Monsieur ' ' 
she  said,  "I  will  try  again  to  make  it  plain.  My  niece 
does  not  wish  to  marry  your  son,  and  if  she  did  I  should 
not  permit  it.  I  do  not  consider  his  character  '  unim- 
peachable. '  "  She  rose  from  her  chair.  She  was  greatly 
exhausted.  She  felt  she  was  unpardonably  rude,  but 
what  could  be  done?  Moreover,  the  word  "permit" 
sounded  so  strangely  to  her  that  she  had  a  nervous 
feeling  it  might  be  overheard. 

Comte  Bernardine  Marie  Gaston  Leroux  de  Barsac 
rose  also.  He  was  very  deeply  chagrined  and  almost 
as  deeply  puzzled,  but  the  American  lady?  s  words  had 
a  ring  of  finality.  He  forebore  further  argument,  al- 
though recollection  of  the  melancholy  mien  his  son 
Gaston  had  borne  of  late  almost  drove  him  to  renewed 
effort. 

After  her  last  remark,  Aunt  Emma  stood  before  him 
and  waited.  Her  eyes  were  winking  very  fast,  her  lips 
had  become  a  tight  line  j  it  was  an  exceedingly  limp  hand 

59 


DEIFT 

that  the  Count  raised  to  his  lips  as  he  made  a  second 
low  bow  and  withdrew. 

Eileen  was  never  able  to  obtain  the  details  of  that 
interview.  In  fact,  Aunt  Emma  went  forth  and  did 
a  number  of  errands  in  the  village  before  encountering 
her  niece  and  then  developed  an  unusual  elusiveness. 

"Did  he  offer  to  make  a  settlement  V  Eileen  enquired, 
1  *  and  did  you  tell  him  I  had  no  dot  ? ' ' 

"We  didn't  get  as  far  as  that,  we  talked  about  char- 
acter. '  * 

"Goodness !"  said  Eileen.  "What  did  you  tell  him 
mine  was  ?    Oh,  do  tell  me  what  you  said  ? ' ' 

But  no, — ino  coaxing  could  extract  any  more  informa- 
tion. Eileen  never  knew  the  unimpeachable  character 
she  might  have  acquired  as  a  husband. 


CHAPTER  VII 

YOUTH  and  love  must  needs  be  inseparable  compan- 
ions. Helen  Tucker,  it  seemed,  had  been  having  her 
own  troubles.  "My  engagement  is  broken,' '  she  wrote. 
"Father  is  deeply  distressed.  He  liked  Dr.  Arnold,  but 
all  he  said  was,  'The  passing  of  one's  word  used  to  be 
considered  a  matter  of  honour,  my  daughter.  It  is  hard 
for  me  to  understand  the  motives  from  which  your  pres- 
ent course  of  action  springs.  I  am  sincerely  sorry.' 
Mother  is  frankly  glad,  and  I, — oh,  I  don't  know.  I 
couldn't  marry  him,  that's  all,  but  it  has  all  been 
terrible.  I  did  not  know  that  it  meant  such  a  lot  to 
him.  I  don't  know  why  I  said  'yes,'  why  I  thought  that 
I  could,  that  it  would  be  all  right,  I  mean.  I  envy 
you  a  little,  I  think,  going  off  to  foreign  parts;  I'd 
like  to  get  away  somewhere.  I've  sat  at  the  window  of 
my  room  and  thought  till  I'm  tired  of  everything." 

1 '  Oh,  dear ! ' '  said  Eileen,  ' '  oh,  dear  me !  Why  didn  't 
these  things  happen  before  we  came  away?" 

She  sent  a  number  of  hastily  scrawled,  affectionate 
pages  to  the  effect  that  Helen  must  find  somebody  to 
come  with  right  off,  and  follow  by  the  next  steamer. 
"Please,  please,  please,  let  me  have  this  great  joy.  You 
never  will  let  me  do  anything  for  you,  and  oh,  I  want 
you  such  a  lot!  It's  so  dull  here!  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  you  wanted  to  come  abroad?" 

Helen's  answer  travelled  to  Paris  in  her  stead.  "You 
61 


DRIFT 

are  a  darling  goose.  Of  course,  I'd  'let*  you!  If  I 
could  have  come  I  would  have  put  my  trunk  on  a  cab 
and  just  appeared  at  the  boat  with  a  'please  take  me 
along.'  but  it  is  out  of  the  question.  I  couldn't  leave 
Mother;  she  isn't  well,  nothing  serious,  only  the  old 
trouble  with  her  heart,  but  the  heat  always  pulls  her 
down,  and  she  has  fretted,  I  'm  afraid,  over  this  affair  of 
mine.  She  and  Father  did  not  think  alike  about  it. 
Oh,  Eileen  dear,  don't  ever,  ever  say  'yes'  until  you 
just  can't  help  it.  That's  the  only  way!  Dr.  Arnold 
has  been  so  fine  and  generous !  I  hate  myself!  I  didn't 
mean  to  write  like  this.  Have  a  nice  time  and  be 
sure  to  bring  home  lots  of  lovely  clothes  to  gladden  our 
eyes.    Dear,  dear,  love — Helen. " 

Eileen  told  Aunt  Emma  of  the  letter,  and  watched  the 
fierce  expression  which  always  overspread  her  features 
at  the  mention  of  Mr.  Tucker.  "How  those  two  live 
with  that  terrible  old  man!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  don't 
wonder  Helen  thought  she  wanted  to  get  married." 

"He  isn't  terrible,"  said  Eileen.  "He  is  gentleness 
itself,  and  most  amusing.  The  last  time  I  was  there 
at  lunch,  he  told  me  that  it  was  a  matter  of  real  grief 
to  him  that  Xantippe  was  so  misunderstood.  'Possibly 
hasty  expressions  may  have  escaped  her  lips,'  he  said, 
'but  it  must  be  excused;  she  had  much  to  contend  with.' 
Then  such  a  funny  twinkle  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
added,  'My  Martha  here, — I've  no  doubt  she  would  un- 
derstand.' We  all  laughed,  and  the  old  dear  went 
around  the  table  and  kissed  Mrs.  Tucker's  hand  with  a 
beautiful  low  bow.  'The  best  wife  in  the  whole  world,' 
he  said." 

Aunt  Emma  gave  a  kind  of  snort.  "Very  pretty!" 
she  observed,  "but  easy.    Martha  Tucker's  a  saint." 

They  reached  home  in  late  October,  and  all  the  rich, 
soft  dresses  were  unpacked  by  a  bevy  of  delighted  maids, 

62 


DRIFT 

and  put  away  in  the  cupboards  of  Eileen's  apartment 
over  the  new  room  in  the  great  house  in  Washing- 
ton Square,  while  Eileen  herself  prepared  for  her  sec- 
ond " season.' '  Aunt  Emma  hoped  it  would  contain  no 
such  disturbing  interruption  as  the  first. 

Helen  Tucker  enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the  new  frocks. 
Of  her  broken  engagement  she  did  not  at  first  want  to 
talk,  more  than  to  tell  Eileen  it  was  the  hardest  thing 
that  she  had  ever  done. 

"I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  ever  had  the  courage/ ' 
she  said.    " Father  felt  very  badly.' ' 

Eileen  permitted  herself  the  observation  that  what 
her  mother  thought  was  more  important.  It  was  always 
difficult  for  other  people  to  sustain  the  conversation  with 
discretion  when  Josiah  Tucker's  wife  or  daughter  spoke 
of  him  with  that  exasperating  air  of  reverence. 

"I  wrote  you  that  Mother  was  glad,"  Helen  said. 
"She  was  wonderful  all  through;  so  good  to  me  and 
to  Frank !  You  know  Dr.  Arnold  is — well  he  has  every- 
thing he  wants,  I  suppose.  I  wondered  if  that  influenced 
Father.  It  is  a  funny  idea  when  he  is  such  a  recluse, 
isn't  it?  But  I  couldn't  help  thinking, —  Oh,  Eileen, 
dear,  don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more.  I  didn't  love 
him.  I  tried  to,  but  I  could  not  do  it,  that's  all.  I'm 
so  glad  you're  back, — tell  me  about  your  trip." 

"There's  little  to  tell.  I  wrote  you  about  the  villa. 
It  was  nice  enough,  but  dull,  oh  so  dull!  I  went  in 
swimming  and  read  awful  books  that  Auntie  hated. 
There  was  a  queer  Frenchman  for  a  while;  Auntie 
talked  to  his  father,  but  she  would  never  tell  me  what 
she  said.  Then  we  stopped  in  Paris  and  got  some 
clothes  and  came  home,  and  that's  all." 

Eileen  got  up  and  wandered  about  the  room  while 
Helen  watched  her. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  Helen  asked. 

"Oh,  everything  Aunt  Emma  wants  me  to,  I  sup- 
63 


DRIFT 

pose,"  Eileen  yawned.  " There's  a  whole  heap  of  eartfs 
already.  I  behaved  badly  last  winter." 
t  They  talked  for  a  while  after  they  went  to  bed,  and 
it  came  to  Eileen  to  tell  Helen  about  Thorne,  but  what 
was  there  to  say?  She  had  said  "no"  and  he  had  gone. 
That  was  better  certainly  than  an  uncertain  engage- 
ment ending  in  distress. 

Studying  the  soft  curves  of  Helen's  face  the  next 
morning  as  she  slept,  she  failed  to  find  any  marks  of 
grief.  Aunt  Emma  was  wont  to  say  that  the  girl 
could  not  approach  her  mother's  early  beauty,  but  cer- 
tainly she  was  pretty.  Her  hair  was  a  curly,  golden 
brown  glory  around  the  young  fresh  fairness  of  her 
face.  Her  nose  turned  up,  which  she  deplored,  and  it 
was  freckled  besides.  Her  mouth  was  rich  and  soft  and 
curved,  with  ready  smiles.  Her  eyes  always  seemed  to 
hold  a  little  imp  of  gayety  lurking  in  their  brown  depths. 

Under  Eileen's  scrutiny,  Helen  moved  and  opened  her 
eyes,  then  stretched  out  two  round  arms,  sat  up  and 
looked  about.  "Oh,  it's  so  pretty, — all  this!"  she  said, 
"I  love  it,  but  I've  got  to  run."  She  was  out  of  bed, 
and  Eileen  heard  her  singing  a  gay  little  lilt  to  the 
accompaniment  of  splashing.  Certainly  Helen  did  not 
seem  to  be  grieving. 

"Eileen  is  not  happy,"  Helen  Tucker  announced  to 
her  mother  on  her  return  home. 

"And  pray,  why  not?"  Martha  Tucker  demanded. 
She  was  contemplating  a  desk  full  of  bills  and  accounts 
as  she  spoke  and  they  irked  her.  At  the  moment,  free- 
dom from  these  seemed  to  constitute  happiness.  "Pray 
why  not  ?    She  has  the  world  to  choose  from. ' ' 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Helen,  "and  she  can't  choose. 
It's  making  her  miserable." 

1 '  Humph ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Tucker.  '  *  Helen,  will  you  water 
the  rose  garden  before  the  sun  gets  there  and  look  for 
slugs  as  you  go  along?    I've  got  to  do  these  accounts." 

64 


DRIFT 

Helen  went  into  the  garden  and  absently  watered  and 
slugged.  She  was  puzzled  about  Eileen.  Those  lovely 
clothes  and  the  whole  summer  abroad, — what  in  the 
world  was  the  matter  with  her?  Helen  was  not  envious ; 
she  only  thought  of  a  few  things  it  would  be  nice  to  do 
— if — but  then,  she  couldn't  leave  Mother  anyway,  what 
was  the  use  of  thinking  about  Europe  ? 

Eileen  had  had  time  for  a  deal  of  thinking  as  she 
sat  on  the  rocks  of  the  coast  of  Brittany  and  watched 
the  sea.  She  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to  fall  in 
love, — but  what  was  love?  What  did  it  mean?  What 
did  it  do  to  you?  Her  father  had  loved  her  mother 
and  there  had  been  only  unhappiness.  Had  Victoria 
loved  the  man  who  had — ?  She  covered  her  face  as  the 
recollection  swept  over  her.  No,  no,  that  wasn't  love. 
She  remembered  the  books  she  had  read,  to  which  Aunt 
Emma  had  objected.  Strindberg  was  not  calculated  to 
instil  pleasant  ideas  of  love  in  the  heart  of  youth. 
Helen  had  broken  her  engagement ;  what  had  made  her 
do  that  ?  Eileen  wanted  something,  but  she  was  afraid — 
desperately  afraid.  She  wished  Robert  Thome  had 
come  to  her;  she  was  not  afraid  when  he  was  with  her. 

After  due  reflection,  she  decided  that  for  one  winter 
she  would  go  to  parties  as  Aunt  Emma  expected  her  to 
do.  So  to  parties  she  went,  night  after  night,  dressed  in 
the  lovely  frocks  from  Paris. 

It  was  a  strange  winter.  Aunt  and  niece  lived 
together  in  outward  harmony  and  inward  discontent. 
More  than  once  Aunt  Emma  exclaimed,  "You  are  just 
like  your  father!"  and  one  time  Eileen  answered,  "I 
Kvish  I  could  go  away  to  South  America  like  him  and 
be  free." 

The  pained  look  that  came  over  Aunt  Emma's  face 
smote  her.  Instantly  she  was  on  her  knees,  begging  for- 
giveness, caressing  the  soft  old  hands,  calling  herself 

65 


DRIFT 

harsh  names.  How  could  she  be  so  dreadful,  so  terribly, 
terribly  ungrateful?  She  did  not  mean  it,  Aunt  Emma 
•must  not  think  she  meant  it. 

She  was  forgiven,  of  course,  and  petted,  but  the  quick 
words  had  cut  deep  and  could  not  be  forgotten. 

"I  wish  that  I  understood  you  better,  dear  child.' ' 
Aunt  Emma  said,  stroking  the  brown  head  on  her  lap. 
"I  wish  that  I  could  make  you  happy.  I  want  to,  but 
I  don't  know  how." 

After  such  a  talk  Eileen  would  try  in  every  way  that 
she  could  think  of  to  please  Aunt  Emma,  even  to  writing 
notes  promptly. 

Her  ways  with  invitations  were  apt  to  be  casual. 
There  was  always  an  element  of  uncertainty  as  to 
Eileen's  appearance  when  expected,  but  when  brought 
to  book  for  her  ways,  she  contrived,  in  her  delicately 
caressing  voice,  such  graceful  apologies  of  contrite 
words  that  she  had  to  be  forgiven.  To  Aunt  Emma  she 
explained  that  she  liked  to  choose  how  she  would  spend 
the  evening,  and  people  never  told  you  in  advance,  you 
just  had  to  trust  them  and  sometimes  your  faith  was 
terribly  misplaced. 

She  loved  dancing,  and  hated  dining ;  as  for  the  opera 
or  any  kind  of  concert,  she  would  not  go  to  them  at  all. 
She  said  it  gave  her  time  to  think,  and  thinking  made 
her  melancholy.  These  elective  tastes  were  apt  to  pro- 
duce confusion  in  the  matter  of  invitations. 

Aunt  Emma  tried  to  interest  her  niece  in  her  own 
favourite  pursuit — that  of  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
the  poor.  Every  Wednesday  morning  Eileen  went  to 
do  filing  in  the  office  of  the  society  of  which  Aunt  Emma 
was  president.  She  worked  at  first  with  some  assiduity, 
duly  docketing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Sumulowski  with 
their  numerous  brood  and  all  attendant  ills  in  the 
proper  pigeon-hole  for  future  reference ;  but  filing  cards 

66 


DRIFT 

in  cases  grew  irksome  as  the  winter  gayeties  grew  livelier. 
Attendance  at  the  office  became  more  and  more  uncer- 
tain. Finally  one  day,  coming  in  late,  she  found  a  deft 
young  clerk  rapidly  finishing  the  work.  It  seemed  quite 
useless  to  go  any  more  after  that. 

Where  all  this  dining  and  dancing  were  to  lead  to, 
Eileen  did  not '  enquire.  She  had  decided  that  she 
was  not  adapted  to  any  other  life  than  the  one  in 
which  she  found  herself,  so  she  drifted  without  intention 
from  one  day 's  occupation  to  the  next :  to  steer  her  craft 
she  had  no  chart  or  compass,  nor  could  she  see  ahead 
any  haven  of  content. 

One  curious  trait  she  developed  that  was  a  sore  trial 
to  Aunt  Emma — she  would  make  no  plans  in  advance, 
but  wanted  to  decide  and  execute  everything  on  an 
hour's  notice.  It  was  disconcerting  for  a  home-keeping 
lady,  whose  mind  worked  slowly,  also  for  hostesses  who 
had  counted  upon  Eileen's  decorative  presence.  It  was 
as  if  inwardly  she  was  always  hoping  that  something 
might  happen,  something  important,  and  was  unwilling 
to  put  the  slightest  obstacle  in  the  way.  Let  her  be  a 
pilgrim,  girded  and  ready,  so  that  if  ever  a  heavenly 
visitant  should  beckon  to  some  unknown  fairyland,  there 
would  be  no  shackling  bonds  to  break. 

One  day  in  early  spring  she  visited  the  studio  of  a 
painter  who  had  a  group  of  ardent  spirits  working 
under  him.  They  all  seemed  busy  and  happy.  One 
of  them  complained  that  the  " daylight  wasn't  long 
enough,"  a  phrase  which  Eileen  thought  about  in  the 
watches  of  the  night.  She  decided  that  she  would 
study  art. 

Aunt  Emma  made  no  objections.  It  seemed  an  inno- 
cent desire  and  she  thought  that  it  would  probably  not 

last  long. 

67 


DEIPT 

Forthwith  Eileen  made  application  at  the  School  of 
Design,  paid  a  fee  and  was  bidden  to  present  herself  at 
nine  o  'clock  the  next  morning.  She  was  greatly  excited ; 
visions  of  working  happily  " while  daylight  lasted' ' 
and  contemplating  with  pleasure  the  result  of  her 
labour,  rose  before  her.  It  would  be  a  great  deal  more 
fun  than  balls. 

But  it  was  not.  It  was  intolerably  arduous  and  dull. 
It  took  her  about  ten  days  to  discover  this.  The  things 
they  gave  her  to  draw — jugs  and  balls  and  bananas — 
were  deadly  uninteresting,  and  besides,  she  couldn't  do 
them.  The  hours,  nine  to  five,  with  an  hour  at  noon, 
were  exhausting;  her  knees  ached  and  she  wanted  to 
faint ;  but  she  kept  on,  remembering  the  sudden  ending 
of  the  Helena  House  experiment. 

Her  fellow-students  amused  her.  They  were  a  gay 
crew,  most  of  them  industrious,  all  light-hearted.  At 
first  there  had  been  a  little  distrust  of  her.  The  news- 
paper headlines  "A  Society  Career  Thrown  Aside  for 
Art."  "The  Brilliant  Miss  Picardy  Will  Have  No 
More  of  New  York  Balls.  She  Dons  the  Blue  Smock 
of  an  Art  Student, ' '  were  not  reassuring  to  their  demo- 
cratic souls. 

Eileen  was  modest  and  always  polite,  which  some  of 
them  were  not;  they  found  her  odd  beauty  alluring; 
she  drew  abominably  and  knew  it.    They  took  her  in. 

Noticing  their  meagre  luncheons,  she  contrived  in  a 
little  while  a  series  of  ' '  Talk  Parties, ' '  as  she.  called 
them,  at  a  near-by  restaurant,  to  which  her  fellow- 
workers  flocked  delightedly. 

May  came  with  its  breath  of  new  life.  There  were  a 
'few  warm  days.  Eileen  toiled  away;  at  her  easel  and 
wondered.  Aunt  Emma  noticed  a  waning  of  enthusi- 
asm and  one  evening  made  the  observation  that  she  was 

68 


DRIFT 

getting  homesick  for  the  Farm.  She  hoped  Eileen 
wasn't  thinking  of  Europe  again  for  the  summer. 
Eileen  wasn't.    She  had  made  no  plans. 

"Well,"  Aunt  Emma  went  on,  "I  should  like  to  move 
to  the  Farm  next  week.  I  love  the  early  spring  in 
the  country.  But  of  course  I  suppose  you  can't  leave 
the  school?  It- would  be  nice  if  you  could  leave, — a 
little  sooner  perhaps?" 

Eileen  would  see  what  could  be  arranged.  Oh  what 
heaven !  not  to  have  to  get  to  that  terrible  easel  at  nine 
o'clock !  Aunt  Emma  couldn't  be  allowed  to  go  alone  to 
the  Farm,  of  course  not. 

The  instructor  smiled  pleasantly  when  Eileen  ex- 
plained the  necessity  for  her  departure.  He  made  no 
objections,  in  fact,  he  made  the  inconsiderate  observa- 
tion that  he  was  not  surprised.  He  then  pointed  out 
tto  her  that  she  must  expect  to  forfeit  the  remainder  of 
her. tuition  fee.  The  grins  on  the  faces  about  him  re- 
minded him  suddenly  what  he  had  said.  He  shook 
hands  hastily  and  departed. 

Eileen's  career  in  Art  was  over.  Sfye  was  so  thankful 
that  she  proposed  to  give  a  students'  ball.  Aunt  Emma 
was  amused  at  the  idea,  and  surprised  at  the  menu 
Eileen  ordered  for  supper;  also  that  the  date  was  set 
only  two  days  off.  "Oh,  they'll  all  come,"  said  Eileen, 
"they  haven't  any  *  previous  engagements.'  " 

They  did.  The  ball  took  place  with  great  hilarity  and 
the  supper  was  evidently  appreciated.  Aunt  Emma 
thought  the  clothes  of  the  female  art  students  odd.  ' '  Not 
quite,  my  dear — well,  not  quite  what  we  like  to  see 
young  girls  wear,  do  you  think?"  She  looked  at  Eileen 
hopefully. 

"You  must  remember,  Auntie  dear,"  Eileen  ex- 
plained, "they  are  all  poor.  They  have  to  make  a  little 
cover  all  they  can." 

69 


DRIFT 

Aunt  Emma  took  off  her  glasses  to  see  if  this  was  a 
joke.  If  so,  she  thought  it  a  poor  one.  Eileen  was  apt 
to  be  obscure;  one  never  could  be  quite  sure  what  she 
meant.  She  put  her  glasses  pn  again.  It  was  no  laugh- 
ing matter. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"I    AM  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Miss  Picardy.    May  I 

1    take  you  in  ? ' '  were  his  first  words. 

Eileen  turned  at  the  name,  "Mr.  John  Templeton,,, 
as  pronounced  by  her  hostess.  She  saw  a  tall,  rather 
grave  man  who  bowed  and  gave  her  his  arm  as  he  spoke. 

"I  have  wanted  to  meet  you,"  said  Mr.  John  Temple- 
ton,  "and  now  I  have." 

"Why?"  Eileen  glanced  up  at  him  as  they  moved 
forward.  She  had  been  thinking  of  herself  of  late  as  a 
poor  sort  of  creature.  It  was  gratifying  to  find  that  this 
distinguished-looking  man  wanted  to  meet  her.  She 
wished  she  had  not  declined  so  many  invitations. 

"For  several  reasons.  You  do  picturesque  things, — 
you  don't  take  all  this  too  seriously,  and — oh  well, 
because  you  are  you,  I  suppose. ' '  He  smiled  in  a  queer, 
amused  way,  apparently  at  himself  for  being  so  frank. 

"  'Picturesque'  is  a  pleasant  word  for  my  failures," 
said  Eileen,  "or  are  you  merely  being  polite?  I  can't 
do  anything  but — this.  I've  got  to  take  it  seriously. 
Besides,  I  do." 

"Not  very,"  said  John  Templeton.  "I've  been  ex- 
tremely uneasy.  Our  kind  hostess  told  me  you  might 
come  to-night,  but  then  again  you  might  not.  I  asked 
her  to  ask  me,  you  see,  so  she  was  naturally  anxious, 
fearing  my  reproaches.    I  am  glad  you  came. ' ' 

Eileen  was  disconcerted.  She  thought  him  amusing, 
73 


DRIFT 

but  personal.  She  started  to  speak,  but  not  finding  the 
right  word,  half  turned  to  her  other  neighbour. 

"Aren't  you  interested  to  hear  who  told  me  of  your 
last  'failure'  as  you  call  it?"  He  had  no  idea  of  letting 
her  escape. 

"Who?" 

"A  young  designer,  an  Italian,  whom  you  asked  to 
lunch  somewhere  with  a  lot  of  other  students.  I'd  like 
to  tell  you  what  he  said ;  may  I  ?    I  wonder  if  I  dare  ? ' ' 

"I  see  you  intend  to." 

"He  said  your  eyes  were  like  a  Chinese  princess's 
and  when  you  spoke  it  was  as  if  birds  were  singing  in 
their  sleep.     Do  you  wonder  I  wanted  to  meet  you?" 

This  was  sufficient  to  gain  her  attention.  She  turned 
all  the  way  back.  What  an  odd  man!  Was  he  laugh- 
ing? No,  his  face  was  quite  grave;  he  seemed  to  be 
thinking  over  the  words  he  had  just  spoken. 

"Is  he  a  poet  too?" 

"Perhaps.  He  loves  colour  and  soft,  rich  things, 
and  he  lives  in  a  boarding-house  and  draws  designs  for 
iron  grills.    You  were  good  to  him  at  the  school." 

"But  I  can't  remember " 

"And  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you." 

Eileen's  forehead  had  a  little  frown  of  enquiry  as  she 
looked  at  him  for  explanation.  He  returned  her  gaze 
smilingly,  giving  a  little  nod  as  if  to  say,  "Yes  look  me 
over,  try  me  out,  I  am  going  to  say  bolder  things  than 
that  in  a  moment. ' '    She  took  a  spoonful  of  soup. 

"Will  you  tell  me  how  he  came  to  speak  of  me?" 

"Gladly.  He  brought  me  some  designs.  In  the  port- 
folio were  a  number  of  other  pictures, — one  a  reproduc- 
tion from  a  newspaper  of  a  portrait  of  you,  with  a 
notice  about  your  studying  art.  I  picked  it  up.  'She 
is  gone  now,'  he  said,  'but  I  have  known  her.'  We 
talked  about  you  then — you  would  not  have  minded,  I 

74 


DRIFT 

think,  and  well — here  we  are,  you  and  I.  You  came! 
Since  I'm  confessing  everything  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
that  I  had  a  prejudice." 

1 '  Against  me  t    What  f  or ! " 

"Your  clothes.  My  young  sister  has  a  habit  of  read- 
ing aloud  descriptions  of  them  from  the  public  press. 
It  is  terrible!  She  loves  clothes — Julia — I'm  worried 
about  her ;  and  then  there  were  the  pictures.  I  see  now 
they  didn't  look  like  you — they  looked  cruel."  Sud- 
denly he  was  not  smiling — he  was  intent.  "Are  you 
cruel?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know."  She  felt  a  little  desperate.  "I 
think  I'll  have  to  be  now,  you  talk  so  fast." 

"But  are  you?  I  want  very  much  to  know.  That 
young  Italian — you  can't  even  remember — "  but  Eileen 
was,  apparently,  not  listening ;  a  question  from  the  other 
end  of  the  table  claimed  her. 

"Please  come  back  soon,"  he  said,  and  turned. 

His  other  neighbour,  with  whom  he  dutifully  con- 
versed, found  him,  as  she  afterwards  complained,  "im- 
possibly dull."  She  tried  him  on  art,  religion,  music 
and  the  coming  elections,  and  then  gave  him  up,  for 
which  mercy  he  was  glad. 

Released,  he  could  get  a  glimpse,  as  often  as  manners 
allowed,  of  the  back  of  a  long  white  neck  surmounted 
by  masses  of  brown  hair  entwined  with  gold  and  of  a 
lovely  bare  arm  leaning  on  the  table  perilously  near  him. 

Eileen  was  fully  aware  of  his  desire  and  enjoyed 
keeping  her  back  turned.  She  was  teased  and  inter- 
ested. Nothing  that  she  had  heard  of  John  Templeton 
fitted  with  the  tone  of  what  he  said  to  her.  People  spoke 
of  him  as  remote,  over-serious;  what  was  she  to  think? 
"Was  he  trying  to  see  how  daring  he  could  be?  Was  he 
testing  her?  Something  told  her  that  underneath  the 
lightness  of  his  words  the  man  was  stirred.  He  had 
asked  that  last  question  as  if  he  wanted  to  find  out,  as  if 

75 


DRIFT 

he  wanted  to  know — in  time.  A  curious  feeling  came 
over  her;  she  caught  her  breath  as  she  had  not  done 
since  she  and  Robert  Thorne  had  sat  talking  together 
those  May  afternoons  under  the  chestnuts  in  Paris. 

John  tried  "willing' '  her  to  turn  her  head.  No  use! 
He  reflected  sadly  that  he  and  the  lovely  lady  who 
spoke  in  a  voice  like  birds  singing  in  their  sleep  were 
not  in  Arcady:  his  words  must  be  modified  lest  she  be 
affrighted. 

"I  think  I'll  try  some  of  that  young  Italian's  de- 
signs," he  broke  in  in  desperation.  They  were  serving 
salad — life  was  passing. 

Ah  ha!  It  worked!  Eileen  turned  to  him.  "Try 
his  designs?" 

"I  make  silk,"  said  John  Templeton,  "that's  my 
business.  I  've  been  making  it  ever  since  I  was  nineteen. 
It's  very  absorbing — making  silk,  but  don't  let's  talk 
about  that.  I'd  rather  hear  about  your  experiment. 
What  made  you  study  art  and  what  made  you  stop? 
Please  tell  me  about  it." 

"You  are  very  direct,"  said  Eileen.  "I  couldn't 
learn  to  draw.  That's  why  I  stopped.  It's  a  perfectly 
good  reason,  don't  you  think?  That's  all  there  is  to 
jtell." 

"Have  I  offended  you?  I'm  terribly  sorry.  I  didn't 
mean  to." 

"Oh,  no,"  Eileen  laughed.  "But  you  see,  it  is  em- 
barrassing, confessing  to  failures." 

John  Templeton  had  fallen  in  love,  although  he 
did  not  know  it  yet,  and  the  joy  of  it  was  making  him  a 
little  drunk.  He  heard  his  own  words  with  amazement, 
as  one  hears  another  person  say  surprising  things,  with 
no  sense  of  responsibility. 

Late  that  night  he  was  to  stand  at  his  window  saying 
to  himself,  "Fool,  fool,  fool!  How  could  I?  What 
must  she  think?    Will  she  ever  want  to  see  me  again?" 

76 


DRIFT 

but  for  the  moment,  the  reserve  that  was  apt  to  make 
him  tongue-tied  was  gone. 

Eileen  talked  more  than  she  usually  did  in  answer  to 
his  questions.  By  the  end  of  the  dinner  they  knew  a 
great  deal  about  each  other  and  more  when  it  came  time 
to  go  home.  He  told  her  that  he  had  been  designed  for 
a  strolling  fiddler,  he  loved  the  open  road  and  the  earth 
and  sky  and  nothing  to  think  about,  but  for  several 
reasons,  known  only  to  the  gods,  he  had  turned  out  a 
manufacturer  of  silk;  he  supposed  because  his  father 
was.  He  had  tried,  he  said,  to  instil  romance  into  the 
business  by  importing  designs  from  the  far  East  in 
"quinqueremes  from  Nineveh' '  and  by  making  the  sur- 
roundings as  beautiful  as  might  be,  but  nevertheless,  a 
business  it  remained.  "You  see  I  wanted  to  be  a  musi- 
cian/ '  he  said,  "wanted  it  passionately,  and  so  my  silk 
has  to  make  up."  Eileen  gathered  that  he  took  a 
personal  interest  in  his  operatives.  He  spoke  of  a  lad 
who  was  found  to  have  a  remarkable  eye  for  colour  and 
was  now  studying  painting. 

"I  wonder  why  I'm  telling  you  all  this,"  he  said 
suddenly,  "I  don't  often  run  on  about  myself.  You  are 
good  to  be  interested." 

When  good-nights  were  said,  he  asked  her  gravely, 
"And  when  may  I  see  you  again?" 

Eileen  smiled  up  at  him  vaguely,  perhaps  a  little 
wickedly.  * '  We  are l  at  home '  on  Tuesdays  in  January, ' ' 
she  said. 

The  lady  who  had  arranged  the  dinner  at  John's 
behest  had  some  comments  to  make  to  a  sleepy  husband. 
"I  know  it's  late,  but  it  went  off  well.  John  Templeton 
was  like  a  boy  on  a  holiday.  I  never  saw  him  so  before. 
I  believe  he's  in  love  with  Eileen.  His  face  had  a 
radiant  look.    He  was  wonderful." 

"Thought  you  said  he  never  saw  her  before,"  said 
the  host,  switching  off  the  lights. 

77 


DRIFT 

"I  did,  but  that  doesn't  make  any  difference,  does 
it?" 

"Dunno,  I'm  sure.  Are  you  coming  up?"  but  the 
lady  was  thinking,  she  did  not  heed. 

"It  will  be  a  perfect  shame  if  it's  so — they're 
both " 

"You  mean  money,  I  suppose.  Why  don't  you  finish 
your  sentences?    Well,  no  one  can  accuse  them — " 

"Oh,  don't  be  obvious,"  said  the  lady,  "and  don't 
stand  there  in  the  door.  Go  on  upstairs,  I've  some 
notes  to  write." 

After  that  first  night  with  the  surprised  thrill  of  its 
intimate  talk  John  held  himself  in  check.  Eileen  won- 
dered a  little  on  their  subsequent  meetings  what  had 
induced  in  him  the  wild  mood  of  the  dinner  party.  She 
did  not  know  that  for  years  John  had  been  aloof,  fear- 
ing women.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  could  not 
care  for  any  one  again  as  he  had  once  cared  for  someone 
who  had  hurt  him  deeply;  the  scars  were  long  in  heal- 
ing. He  had  not  known  that  they  were  healed  until, 
with  a  sudden  whirring  of  his  wings,  love  came.  He 
had  let  himself  be  mad  with  the  sheer  joy  of  it,  trusting 
to  his  sincerity  to  excuse  his  boldness. 

John  Templeton's  low  voice  with  its  intense  inflec- 
tions was  with  Eileen  during  the  days  that  followed. 
It  was  not  long  before  she  saw  him  again.  He  did  not 
wait  for  "Tuesdays  in  January."  Their  friendship  grew 
rapidly.  She  was  glad  to  see  him,  glad  to  talk  to  him; 
he  did  not  seem  to  have  found  life  at  all  troublesome. 
He  was  keenly  interested  in  his  factory,  "the  works" 
he  called  it,  where  he  had  been  concerned  in  rebuilding 
a  dingy  little  factory  town  into  an  attractive  abiding 
place  for  his  work-people.  As  he  talked,  her  perplex- 
ities became  insignificant. 

One  day  when  he  came,  her  gracious  ways  had  de- 
78 


DRIFT 

serted  her,  she  was  silent  and  unhappy.  Truth  to  tell 
she  and  Aunt  Emma  had  had  an  argument  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  uselessness  of  Eileen's  present  existence  and 
the  girl  was  smarting  at  the  injustice.  She  had  said 
little;  unless  one  wanted  something  it  never  did  much 
good  to  talk  when  Aunt  Emma's  mind  was  fixed,  but 
underneath  her  silence  was  a  deep  determination  to 
do  something — perhaps  something  desperate.  She  would 
go  away  from  home,  she  would  go  on  the  stage,  she 
would  not  go  on  like  this.  Meanwhile  Aunt  Emma  was 
saying,  "I  think  you  should  devote  three  mornings  a 
week  to  some  useful  pursuit,  you  would  be  far  happier." 

"You  didn't  want  me  to  go  to  Helena  House,' '  Eileen 
had  remarked. 

"But  you  did  go  and  then  you  came  home  again. 
Now  you  don't  do  anything  but  mope  about  and  de- 
cline invitations.' '  Aunt  Emmia  was  unusually  tart. 
They  were  short  of  clerks  at  the  offiee  of  her  society, 
and  she  had  suggested  that  Eileen  resume  her  neglected 
duties  in  filing  history  cards  of  "cases,"  only  to  be 
met  with  a  refusal.  Eileen  stated  that  she  hated  filing, 
and  would  never  do  any  more.  She  went  wandering 
to  the  window.  "I  wish  I  was  educated,"  she  said,  "I 
wish  I'd  gone  to  college,  I  wish  I  could  draw." 

"I  wish  you  could,"  said  Aunt  Emma,  and  there 
the  interview  had  ended. 

Eileen  longed  to  ask  John  what  to  do,  but  she  rather 
imagined  he  would  have  an  answer  too  ready.  It  was 
there  in  the  look  of  his  eyes  and  the  touch  of  his  hand, 
but  she  was  not  prepared  yet  to  accept  his  solution.  She 
kept  the  talk  impersonal  until  suddenly  he  said,  "What's 
the  matter?    Won't  you  tell  me?    I  wish  you  would." 

"How  did  you  know?"  Eileen  turned  to  him  with  a 
■little  gesture. 

"Never  mind,  just  tell  me." 

"  I  'd  like  to,  I  'm  so  puzzled.  My  aunt  thinks  I  am  use- 
79 


DEIFT 

less.  She's  quite  right,  of  course,  I  am — useless,  but 
what  to  do  about  it — that  is  not  so  easy  to  answer. 
Everything  I  try  to  do  that  is  useful,  I  can't."  She 
looked  up  at  him  and  held  out  her  hands,  palms  upwards. 

John  was  sincerely  concerned,  but  found  no  imme- 
diate answer.  He  wanted  to  take  the  two  hands  and 
kiss  them,  but  that  did  not  seem  the  proper  reply  to 
a  serious  statement,  at  least  not  then. 

Eileen  went  on,  in  that  low,  silvery  voice  of  hers  that 
seemed  to  hold  the  enchantment  of  some  softly  played 
oriental  music.  John  tried  hard  to  give  due  attention, 
but  the  magic  of  her  presence  possessed  his  thought. 
In  his  heart  he  was  crying  out,  "Beloved,  I  want  you! 
I  want  you !    Come ! ' ' 

Eileen  heard  the  cry  ringing  through  his  grave  words 
of  polite  enquiry  as  to  her  difficulties  with  Aunt  Emma 
Endicott.  Feeling  his  strength,  his  tenderness,  she 
found  it  good  to  talk  to  him  of  some  of  the  baffling 
questions  that  beset  her.  She  told  him  how  she  longed 
to  accomplish  "something"  and  couldn't.  "It  would  be 
clearer  if  I  knew  what  it  was,"  she  added,  with  a  for- 
lorn little  laugh,  and  gave  him  some  sad  reflections 
upon  life  itself;  it  was  utterly  and  increasingly  incom- 
prehensible to  her — what  it  was  all  about — why  she  was 
sighing  for  an  occupation,  while  most  people  were  too 
busy.  Aunt  Emma,  for  instance.  She  had  letters  and 
committee  meetings  and  people  to  consult  all  day  long; 
she  seemed  to  like  it.  Theji  in  a  burst  she  told  him 
about  the  filing  cards,  and  how  after  her  toil  the  clerk 
did  them  better.  "Nobody  can  conceive  how  I  hate 
filing,"  she  said. 

John  had  no  particular  advice  to  offer  as  to  satis- 
fying occupations  for  idle  young  ladies,  but  he  main- 
tained that  in  spite  of  many  puzzling  things,  life  was 
very  good  indeed,  "splendidly  worth  while."  He 
seemed  so  sure  about  this  that  Eileen  was  comforted. 
If  other  people  found  it  so,  perhaps  she  could. 

8Q 


DRIFT 

"Come  for  a  walk  in  the  park,"  he  said;  "it's  a  gor- 
geous cold  day.  Exercise  is  a  homely  remedy  for  low 
spirits,  but  let's  try  it." 

When  they  came  home  at  dusk  along  the  lighted  ave- 
nue Eileen  was  loath  to  have  him  leave  her.  She  asked 
him  to  come  in,  but  John,  to  his  own  surprise  as  he 
thought  it  over,  developed  powers  of  strategy.  He 
had  made  her  need  his  presence ;  she  should  feel  the  lack 
of  it;  she  should  miss  him.  "You  have  given  me  a  very 
wonderful  afternoon,"  he  said,  "I  shall  never  forget 
it,"  and  he  was  gone. 

Alone  in  her  room,  Eileen  tried  to  analyse  her  feeling. 
It  was  his  serenity,  she  decided,  that  was  so  attractive. 
He  pursued  his  path  with  a  steady  purpose,  making 
the  most  of  it,  taking  such  pleasures  as  he  sought,  lightly 
yet  heartily.  She  wished,  oh  how  she  wished,  she  could 
be  like  that.  But  then  he  had  his  work.  He  had  told 
her  that  it  was  an  absorbing  interest,  and  indeed  as  he 
talked  of  how  his  silk  was  made,  the  story  sounded  like 
a  romance.  How  pleasant  it  must  be,  she  thought,  to 
make  something.  She  remembered  the  charcoal  drawings 
of  jugs  and  bananas  she  had  made  and  how  she  had 
crumpled  them  furiously  and  burned  them  up  when  their 
futility  swept  her. 

John  Templeton  was  forty  fathoms  deep  in  love.  He 
was  fastidious.  Only  in  Eileen  had  he  found  himself 
wholly  uncritical,  wholly  satisfied.  Everything  that  she 
said,  everything  that  she  did  was  a  delight  to  him. 
Eileen  was  not  prodigal  of  speech,  she  was  apt  to  leave 
a  good  deal  to  her  hearer's  powers  of  guessing,  never 
troubling  to  explain  if  she  was  misunderstood.  Some- 
times John  did  not  at  all  know  what  she  was  trying  to 
say  and  did  not  try.  To  look  at  her,  to  know  that  soft, 
dark  beauty  near  him  was  enough. 

When  they  were  together,  her  slow  grace  roused  his 
blood  to  such  a  pitch  of  longing,  he  could  not  believe 
that  another  meeting  could  take  place  without  his  tell- 

81; 


DRIFT 

ing  her  of  his  need,  his  utter  need  of  her.  Several  times 
he  made  an  attempt,  but  the  words  were  awkward.  His 
sense  of  reverence  for  love  itself,  for  the  profoundly 
beautiful  thing  he  felt  within  his  heart,  made  what 
he  said  so  grave  as  to  be  almost  cold.  Eileen's  lack  of 
answer  caused  a  constraint  only  to  be  broken  by  a  quick 
return  to  the  impersonal.  One  thing  she  noticed, — if 
he  was  touched  or  moved  by  what  she  said,  if  by  a  little 
word  or  look  she  seemed  to  answer  to  his  great  demand, 
the  demand  that  he  let  her  feel  was  there,  suddenly, — he 
would  become  strangely  dumb. 

Aunt  Emma  was  all  graciousness.  She  thought  Eileen 
was  happier  and  believed  that  marriage  would  put  an 
end  to  all  her  waywardness.  She  was  fearful  that  Mr. 
Templeton  would  make  mistakes  in  his  wooing  and  so 
jeopardize  his  chances.  She  had  some  idea  of  giving 
him  counsel,  but  reflected  that  she  might  advise  him 
wrong;  it  was  safer  to  remain  silent.  You  could  never 
tell  how  Eileen  would  take  anything. 

She  was  afraid  of  showing  her  liking  for  him,  and  so 
having  a  possible  deterrent  effect  upon  Eileen's  de- 
cision. To  give  an  effect  of  disapproval,  she  made  little 
efforts  to  treat  him  coldly,  making  up  by  a  burst  of 
cordiality  if  Eileen  were  absent.  John  thought  her  a 
pleasant  old  lady  but  eccentric  in  manner. 


CHAPTER  IX, 

JOHN  TEMPLETON  was  thirty-two,  clean-looking  and 
clean  lived.  In  a  different  way  he  had  had  as  pecu- 
liar a  youth  as  Eileen,  for  he  had  been  occupied  in  build- 
ing a  city,  which  some  ten  thousand  souls  now  inhabited. 
He  bore  the  marks;  his  serious  air  gave  an  impression 
of  extreme  gravity. 

When  John  was  seventeen  his  father  had  died  sud- 
denly, leaving  him  with  a  mother  and  younger  sister  to 
take  charge  of  and  an  impressive  mass  of  documents 
and  plans  relating  to  extensive  proposed  improvements 
at  the  factory  where  John  Templeton,  Senior,  had  made 
a  fortune  in  the  sixties  by  the  manufacture  of  silk. 

Now,  the  town  of  Templeton  stood  complete,  a 
"model  village,' '  built  through  the  determination  and 
desire  of  the  widow  and  her  son  to  carry  out  the  plans 
entrusted  to  them. 

After  her  husband's  death,  Mrs.  Templeton  had  found 
solace  for  her  loneliness  in  throwing  herself  into  a  study 
of  industrial  villages  in  the  various  foreign  countries 
where  she  took  her  children  for  the  purpose.  It  was 
a  queer  preoccupation  for  a  boy  of  seventeen.  During 
the  four  years  of  his  college  course,  each  vacation  was 
spent  in  a  different  country,  seeking  to  learn  all  that 
might  avail  for  the  great  task  before  them.  Mingled 
with  the  seriousness  of  these  pursuits  was  the  joy  of 
work  with  his  violin.    At  times  the  boy  thought  wist- 

83 


DEIPT 

fully  of  the  life  of  a  musician,  but  it  was  only  a  vision. 
His  mother's  life  was  consecrated,  his  must  be.  His 
sense  of  inherited  obligation  was  strong,  for  with  the 
plans  had  been  a  letter  from  his  father  charging  his  son 
to  carry  on  the  work  "my  hands  must  now  lay  down." 
His  father  had  dreamed ;  to  him  was  now  given  the  task 
of  making  that  dream  reality. 

To  a  nature  rich  in  emotion,  romance  was  as  the 
breath  of  his  nostrils.  It  must  be  had  to  live.  Into 
his  study  of  industrialism,  he  put  the  fervour,  the  im- 
agination, that  might  have  made  him  an  artist.  Like 
his  father,  his  work  became  his  dream. 

The  little  girl,  Julia,  a  child  at  the  time  of  her  father's 
death,  caught  the  fever  of  building  and  became  an  ardent 
student  of  housing  reform.  She  would  be  left  out  in 
nothing.  Imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  charming  towns 
they  visited,  she  made  ingenious  card-board  models  for 
cottages,  surrounding  them  with  stiff  little  formal  gar- 
dens of  gay-coloured  paper  flowers.  Some  of  these 
later  came  into  being,  flower-beds  and  all,  built  by  an 
indulgent  brother. 

On  their  return  from  a  final  year  abroad,  the  aspect 
of  the  town  of  Templeton,  then  called  South  Fork, 
struck  them  as  unlovely  to  a  lamentable  degree.  The 
surrounding  country  was  beautiful;  it  was  unbearable 
that  the  hand  of  man  should  make  such  an  unsightly 
blotch.  They  set  to  work.  None  save  the  keeper  of  the 
archives  of  the  company  ever  knew  what  sums  were 
spent,  nor  to  what  extent  both  John  and  his  mother  sac- 
rificed their  own  incomes.  On  account  of  her  youth, 
Julia  was  considered  exempt  from  these  sacrifices,  with 
the  result  that  on  her  majority  a  startling  fortune  was 
made  over  to  her. 

When  the  matter  was  explained  she  expressed  her 
views  with  clearness.  Was  she  to  have  no  part  in  the 
building  of  her  father's  vision?    She  should  have  been 

84 


DEIFT 

consulted,  she  would  have  understood,  of  course,  she 
would.  Hadn't  she  gone  with  them  to  all  those  little 
towns  in  Europe,  one  after  another,  for  months? 

It  was  a  curious  family  scene ;  John  and  Mrs.  Temple- 
ton  arraigned  by  the  young  enthusiast  for  not  allowing 
her  to  help, — she  maintaining  in  the  course  of  her  vig- 
orous remarks  that  she  could  well  have  omitted  that  ex- 
pensive boarding-school,  as  it  never  did  her  any  good. 
The  result  of  the  conference  was  permission  to  Julia  to 
build  certain  proposed  improvements  in  the  village, 
the  gymnasium  and  a  little  theatre.  Thus  Julia's  sense 
of  fitness  was  restored,  and  the  inhabitants  of  Temple- 
ton  provided  with  winter  recreation. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  John  Templeton  was  proud 
of  his  " village.' '  Into  it  he  had  poured  the  idealism 
of  his  youthful  hopes,  the  belief  that  by  such  means 
the  old,  old  struggle  was  to  find  a  solution. 

It  was  a  beautiful  little  city.  Convenient  to  the 
many- windowed  factory  buildings  were  the  workmen's 
cottages,  on  either  side  of  well-paved,  shaded  streets, 
radiating  from  a  central  square. 

Symmetrically  arranged  around  the  square  were  a 
Town  Hall,  Club  Rooms,  a  Gymnasium,  a  Library  and 
four  churches.  In  the  centre  was  a  beflowered  village 
green  on  which  these  harmonious  community  institutions 
looked  forth.  A  lovely  bronze  fountain  at  one  end  was 
balanced  by  a  band  stand  at  the  other.  Here  on  sum- 
mer evenings  the  people  gathered  to  listen  to  excellent 
music.  On  Sunday  mornings  the  different  congregations 
issuing  from  the  various  churches  lingered  on  "The 
Green"  for  friendly  chat. 

At  a  short  distance  were  the  shops,  also  graced  with 
creepers,  vines  and  flowers.  Even  the  butcher's  shop 
was  discreetly  attractive,  displaying  vegetables  under 
a  fountain  with  the  carcasses  in  the  background. 
Near  the  shops  were  several  orderly  saloons,  billiard 

85 


DRIFT 

halls  and  restaurants.  A  police  station  testified  to  the 
fact  that  even  in  this  model  village  there  was  occasional 
need  of  the  arm  of  the  law. 

The  reconstruction  had  covered  a  period  of  ten  years. 
It  had  proved  no  slight  task  to  dislodge  and  relodge 
six  thousand  employees,  not  to  speak  of  the  residue 
of  the  population,  all  of  whom  preferred  to  be  left  as 
they  were.  In  various  ways  the  inhabitants  of  South 
Fork  lifted  up  their  voices,  crying  out  that  all  they 
wanted  Was  to  be  let  alone.  Now  the  village  was  accom- 
plished, they  were  enormously  proud  of  it.  In  a  mo- 
ment of  enthusiasm  the  town  council  had  voted  to  change 
the  name  to  Templeton,  an  action  which  was  to  earn 
them  much  criticism.  By  the  wish  of  the  same  grate- 
ful council,  the  dedication  of  the  various  schools  and 
buildings  to  the  public  was  made  an  occasion.  John 
found  the  ceremonies  acutely  embarrassing. 

The  village  was  only  the  shell.  Not  a  scheme,  not;  a 
device,  not  a  plan  for  the  betterment  of  workers,  but 
was  investigated,  and  if  approved,  put  into  operation 
at  " Templeton.' '  By  a  system  of  wage  credits,  many 
a  youthful  pair  had  set  up  housekeeping,  both  continu- 
ing work  at  the  factory  until  such  time  as  natural  cares 
prevented.  An  ingenious  system  of  benefit  insurance 
was  made  possible  for  all  employees.  It  was  only  John's 
strong  sense  of  individual  liberty  that  kept  the  balance 
and  prevented  the  "paternalism"  he  recognised  and 
feared. 

He  proposed  at  some  later  date,  when  his  endeavours 
had  ripened  into  accomplishment,  to  write  a  history  of 
Templeton.  He  wanted  to  put  into  permanent  form 
the  record  of  his  study  and  experiment.  He  was  trying 
with  all  the  imagination  that  was  in  him  to  find  an  an- 
swer to  the  problem.  Given  human  nature  as  it  is, 
how  were  the  two  elements,  capital  and  labour, 
to   be   welded?     John   persisted  in  a  belief  that  he 

86 


DRIFT 

knew  human  nature.  He  believed  that  he  had  no  illu- 
sions except  the  permissible  one  of  hope.  Always  before 
his  mind  was  the  qualifying  phrase  "given  human  na- 
ture as  it  is."  Knowing  himself,  he  kept  the  words 
in  his  mind  as  a  sort  of  anchor  to  reality. 

Part  of  his  mind  was  occupied  in  seeing  how  far  this 
persistent  hope  was  justified.  He  was  merely  an  ob- 
server getting  material  for  his  record,  be  it  what  it 
might.  With  another  part  he  was  the  romantic  educator, 
using  every  known  means  to  give  his  work-people  the 
ability  to  conduct  their  lives  with  due  regard  for  the 
common  welfare.  It  was  this  wider  aspect  that  made 
every  event,  every  incident  at  the  factory  of  supreme 
importance.  It  was  all  a  test  of  theory,  of  his  belief 
in  human  nature,  of  the  possibility  of  pointing  the  way 
to  some  method  which  might  in  the  end  solve  the  prob- 
lem. His  work  was  his  great  adventure  in  the  world  of 
Hvhich  he  was  a  sojourner,  holding  in  trust  for  the  next 
to  come  an  industry  which  held  a  definite  place  in  the 
march  of  civilisation.  During  his  stewardship  there 
must  be  progress. 

He  had  told  Eileen  on  the  evening  they  met  he  was 
thankful  that  he  did  not  make  shoes,  but  the  point 
was  he  could  not  have  made  shoes.  He  loved  his  silk, 
loved  it  all,  from  the  masses  of  lustrous,  shining  bales 
that  came  to  the  mills  with  the  curious  smell  of  the  holds 
of  ships  and  wharves,  to  the  vast  variety  of  finished 
silken  products  he  sent  out  for  the  delight  of  woman- 
kind. He  loved  the  dyeing  rooms  with  their  huge  vats 
of  liquid  colour,  brilliant  as  jewels,  and  the  designing 
rooms,  where  were  gathered  clever  young  artists  from 
art  schools  eager  to  try  new  designs.  He  had  told  Eileen 
that  he  tried  to  instil  romance  into  his  business.  The 
whole  place  breathed  of  beauty. 

In  all  this  work  mother  and  son  had  been  close  com- 
panions.    Besides  the  problem  of  capital  and  labour, 

87 


DEIFT 

there  was  Julia,  and  the  problem  of  Julia  had  needed  all 
the  wisdom  that  both  of  them  could  supply. 

Mrs.  Templeton  gave  her  son  an  admiration  and  love 
that  had  been  his  stimulus.  She  had  come  as  a  bride  to 
the  small  town  of  South  Fork,  had  sorrowed  over  the 
conditions  and  been  in  reality  the  instigator  of  the 
plans  for  reform.  Now  she  saw  their  accomplishment 
by  the  devotion  of  her  son.    She  was  content. 

At  the  time  John  met  Eileen  he  was  living  with  his 
mother  and  sister  in  New  York,  spending  about  half 
his  time  at  the  mills.  It  was  some  months  after  the 
meeting  and  John  was  very  much  in  love  before  Mrs. 
Templeton  met  Eileen. 

The  encounter,  after  much  wondering  on  John's  part 
how  it  was  to  be  brought  about,  happened  quite  by  acci- 
dent at  a  picture  exhibition.  John  was  fearful,  but 
pretended  to  himself  that  he  was  not.  Would  his  mother 
see  how  wonderful  Eileen  was?  Would  Eileen  under- 
stand his  mother's  stateliness  of  manner,  find  the  tender 
woman  underneath?  As  he  stood  by  the  two,  chatting 
about  the  pictures,  a  whimsical  idea  came  to  him.  Why 
should  he  not  say  simply,  "Please  care  for  each  other, 
please,  for  my  sake !  You^jare  the  two  most  precious  to 
me  on  earth.,,  Instead,  he  made  idle  comments  on  pic- 
tures he  hardly  saw,  and  soon  after  he  and  his  mother 
and  young  Julia  were  whirling  home. 

"She's  the  loveliest  thing!"  said  Julia,  "and  the  odd- 
est! She  doesn't  look  like  just  a  young  lady,  she  looks 
like  somebody  out  of  a  book, — somebody  who's  going  to 
have  things  happen." 

Late  that  evening,  Mrs.  Templeton  came  to  her  son's 
room.  She  stood  looking  at  him  and  then  put  her 
arms  about  him.  "You  want  to  marry  her?"  she  said, 
and  then,  "Oh  John,  John  I  love  you!  I  want  your 
happiness.  I  want  it  terribly!  Life  is  so  full  of  per- 
plexities!    It  is  pitiful  to  be  able  to  do  so  little  for 

88 


DRIFT 

those  we  love!"  The  outburst  was  not  like  her  usual 
serene  reticence  and  John  looked  at  her,  trying  to  find 
her  meaning. 

"You  will  love  her  for  my  sake?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered,  "if  she  is  good  to  you." 

Mother  and  son  sat  down  and  talked  of  the 
years  they  had  spent  together,  happy  years  they 
had  been;  she  was  proud  of  him,  he  had  been  so  good 
to  her,  always.  She  told  him  little  intimate  things 
of  the  early  days  of  herself  and  her  husband,  even  of 
quarrels  that  "had  seemed  so  unhappy  at  the  time." 
"If  one  could  only  pass  on  these  things!"  she  said, 
"you  are  older  than  your  father  was,  and  we  did  not 
find  it  easy.  Oh,  my  son,  if  I  could  only  find  some 
way  of  helping  you,  some  way  to  make  you  see  how  dif- 
ficult it  all  is, — marriage,  I  mean — " 

They  talked  until  very  late,  and  when  she  left  him 
John  sat  and  thought  over  many  things  she  had  said. 
"Dear,  dear  Mother!"  he  thought,  "how  sad  it  is  to  be 
old,  to  have  only  memories!" 

Mrs.  Templeton  had  assumed  that  all  was  arranged 
between  him  and  Eileen,  and  her  confidences  encouraged 
him  to  say  next  day  quite  simply,  "Dear,  I  think  you 
know  what  I  have  wanted  to  ask  many  times  these  last 
weeks.  What  is  your  answer?"  And  as  simply,  Eileen 
told  him  that  her  answer  was  "yes." 

It  all  seemed  to  come  about  naturally,  inevitably.  They 
were  engaged — they  would  be  married  soon — what  then? 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  a  few  days  the  engagement  was  "announced."  John 
would  have  it  so  and  Eileen,  when  he  pleaded,  could 
find  no  adequate  reason  for  delay. 

"But  I  am  so  proud,"  he  told  her,  "so  inordinately, 
madly,  unbelievably  proud,  I  want  everybody  to  know 
it.  I  never  thought  that  I  could  be  so  proud.  It's 
odd,  you  know,  how  I  walk  along  the  street  and  people 
just  go  by  as  if  I  were  a  plain  ordinary  person.  Isn't 
that  stupid  of  them?  But,  of  course,  I  suppose,  they 
couldn't  be  expected  to  know.  Some  day  I  shall  make 
a  great  shout  and  when  everybody  stops,  I  shall  mount 
something  and  stand  above  them  and  cry  out,  'Look! 
all  ye  men  of  little  worth — look  upon  me — I  am  going 
to  marry  a  royal  lady!  Off  with  your  hats,  bow  down 
and  salute  me!'  " 

His  tempestuous  joy  caught  her  as  a  great  wave 
sweeps  a  swimmer  who  rests  floating  upon  its  strength. 
Eileen  thought  him  quite  mad,  but  found  his  ways  at- 
tractive. Love  letters  and  violets  greeted  her  with  her 
morning  coffee,  later  a  telephone  call — "Just  to  hear 
your  voice !  Tell  me  that  you  are  happy."  Gifts  appeared 
hourly,  borne  by  grinning  messengers  plainly  subsidized. 
Flowers  were  not  enough — his  royal  lady  must  have 
rarer  things;  one  day  an  early  edition  of  the  Epitha- 
lamium,  encased  in  a  binding  of  delicate  art,  on  the  fly- 
leaf, "Let  this  tell  you;"  another  day,  a  jewel  casket, 

90 


DEIFT 

cunningly  wrought  by  some  long-dead  Italian  master. 
"Only  one/'  was  written  on  the  card.  "No  need  to 
send  you  three,  for  this  contains  my  life  and  death." 

Eileen  read  the  great  love  poem,  its  stately  cadences 
carrying  the  realization  of  the  passion  of  the  man  to 
whom  she  had  promised  to  give  all  of  herself ;  she  looked 
at  the  ruby  glowing  upon  her  hand,  the  ruby  he  had 
put  there  as  a  sign,  and  wondered. 

"When  John  came  to  her,  eager,  happy;  when  his 
hands  tightened  around  her  body,  when  his  kisses  left 
marks  upon  her  throat,  she  trembled. 

Aunt  Emma  Endicott  overflowed  with  pleasure.  Now 
all  would  be  well  of  course.  She  had  no  doubts  on  that 
score. 

Shortly  the  newspapers  had  properly  worded  state- 
ments befitting  the  high  social  status  of  the  principal 
persons  concerned.  The  marriage  would  take  place,  it 
was  understood,  in  early  spring. 

Gilded  teacups,  frail  and  perishable;  flowers — great 
boxes  of  them — roses,  orchids,  violets — lovely  for  a 
day;  pretty  notes  of  congratulation,  all  poured  in,  and 
invitations;  many,  many  invitations.  The  two  people 
who  had  pledged  each  other  to  come  together  as  man 
and  wife  were  invited  out  to  eat  their  evening  meal 
in  company  with  their  fellows  every  night  for  three 
weeks.  They  were  kept  so  occupied  by  their  friends  who 
wished  them  to  be  happy  that,  except  in  going  to  and 
from  the  dinner  parties,  they  rarely  had  a  chance  to  be 
alone. 

The  lady  who  had  given  the  dinner  party  where  they 
first  met  was  triumphant. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,  that  first  night?"  she  demanded 
of  a  bewildered  husband. 

"Tell  what?"  he  growled,  being  weary  at  the  mo- 
ment and  knowing  he  must  shortly  hurry  and  become 

more  weary. 

91 


DEIPT 

"That  John  Templeton  had  fallen  in  love.  I  knew 
it  that  night  that  they'd  be  married.  I  remember  dis- 
tinctly telling  you." 

"  Humph !"  he  gave  her.  "I  remember  it  was  very 
late  and  yon  got  off  something  sentimental — said  John 
Templeton  looked  'radiant' — that  was  it,  queer  word — 
radiant — never  should  have  thought  of  it  myself.  If  I 
recall,  you  deplored  the  idea  at  the  time  and  now  you're" 
rejoicing!  There's  no  accounting  for  the  way  a  woman 
will  think." 

1  ■  Oh,  you  '11  never  understand, ' '  said  the  lady.  ■ '  Don 't 
you  see,  I'm  glad  for  John  if  that  is  what  he  wants." 

She  was  consoled  next  day  by  a  huge  box  of  flowers 
with  John  Templeton 's  card,  "You  asked  her!"  written 
on  it. 

Everybody  was  delighted  except  Helen  Tucker,  who 
said  all  the  proper  things  but  in  her  heart,  was  troubled. 
She  had  conferences  with  her  mother  on  the  subject  of 
Eileen's  engagement.  "She  won't  talk  about  anything 
but  clothes,"  Helen  complained.  "I  do  wish  she  would 
be  a  little  sentimental,  when  we're  alone  I  mean.  I  like 
Mr.  Templeton  tremendously.  He  adores  her  and 
he  isn't  a  bit  ashamed  of  letting  it  be  seen — he's  amusing 
about  it.  You  know  they're  to  be  married  right  away. 
Miss  Endicott  is  in  a  flutter — chattering  about  the  pres- 
ents and  the  breakfast.  She's  having  a  lovely  time — 
I  wish  I  knew  whether  Eileen  was ! ' ' 

"I  wouldn't  meddle,  Honey,"  said  her  mother.  "If 
Eileen  doesn't  want  to  talk,  don't  ask  questions." 

"I  don't,"  said  Helen,  "but  she's  so  airy  and  queer 
and  elusive  about  it  all.  I  have  a  feeling  she's  marry- 
ing him  because  she  couldn't  learn  to  draw.  He's  ex- 
tremely attractive;  there's  no  reason  why  a  woman 
shouldn't  care  a  let." 

"Well,  better  not  make  up  your  mind  that  she 
doesn't."    Martha  Tucker's  voice  was  a  little  absent. 

92 


DRIFT 

She  had  scant  sympathy  with  Helen's  concern  about  the 
state  of  Eileen's  feelings.  Eileen  had  so  much  and  her 
girl  so  little!  For  herself,  Martha  Tucker  wanted  no 
more,  but  for  the  glowing  young  creature  standing  be- 
side her  wiping  the  breakfast  cups,  she  wanted  the  whole 
world. 

"Mr.  Templeton  seems  very  happy,"  mused  Helen. 
"Perhaps  it's  all* right.  It's  the  way  she  talks  about 
him  that  worries  me,  or  rather  the  way  she  won't  talk 
anything  but  nonsense.  I  said  something  serious  yes- 
terday, for  I  wanted  to  find  out — and  what  do  you  think 
she  answered?  asked  me  if  I  knew  what  happened  be- 
tween the  time  the  worm  wore  the  silk  on  his  back  and 
I  put  it  on  mine!  Of  course,  I  didn't.  'John  does,' 
she  said,  and  then  she  ran  along  in  that  crazy  way  she 
has  when  she's  unhappy, — you  know  what  I  mean.  She 
began  telling  me  how  a  Chinese  princess  car- 
ried the  eggs  of  the  silkworm  and  the  seeds  of 
the  mulberry-tree  into  India  concealed  in  her 
head-dress  and  a  lot  of  other  stuff.  I  interrupted 
her  and  took  her  by  the  two  arms,  then  I  looked  at  her, 
and  I  said,  'Eileen  Picardy,  tell  me  one  thing.  Would 
you  marry  that  man  if  he  made  tin  cans?'  I  said  it 
laughingly,  but  she  knew  what  I  meant.  'Certainly 
not!'  she  said,  and  that  is  as  far  as  I  could  get.  Oh, 
Mummie  dear,  I  hope  she'U  be  happy!  She's  so  sweet 
and  Aunt  Emma  bores  her  so !    I'm  glad  I 've  got  you ! ' ' 

Martha  Tucker  looked  severe.  "Miss  Endicott  is  one 
of  the  finest  women  I  know,"  she  said.  "I  have  often 
thought  Eileen  was  most  undutiful." 

"Yes,  darling,"  said  Helen,  "and  now  you've  said 
what  you  ought  to  say,  tell  me  what  you  think.  Aunt 
Emma's  a  duck,  of  course,  but  she  wears  such  ugly, 
spotted  clothes,  and  fusses.  I  know  that's  why  Eileen 
is  getting  married,— that  and  the  art  school.    What  do 

93 


DRIFT 

you  think  ?"  But  Mrs.  Tucker  refused  to  have  any 
opinions  on  the  subject.  She  told  Helen  again  "not 
to  meddle.' ' 

All  at  once,  in  the  midst  of  the  congratulations  and 
festivities  and  flowers,  Eileen  fled  to  the  Farm.  She 
gave  no  reasons,  she  made  no  excuses.  She  could  not 
tell  herself  why  she  must  get  away.  A  wave  of  terror, 
of  shrinking  from  what  was  to  come,  swept  over  her. 
What  was  it  she  had  done?  What  was  to  happen  to 
her?  On  the  night  before  she  went,  John  had  found 
her  listless  and  miserable.  She  tried  to  tell  him  that  it 
was  all  a  mistake,  but  his  look  frightened  her  and  she 
merely  said  she  wanted  to  get  away,  that  she  was  tired 
out  with  all  the  fuss.    No,  he  was  not  to  come. 

When  she  reached  the  Farm  it  was  profoundly 
dreary.  The  snow  had  gone  and  the  brown  fields  showed 
no  sign  of  spring.  The  caretaker  had  made  a  few  hasty 
preparations,  but  the  house  wore  a  shut-up  melancholy 
air.  She  had  been  almost  angry  when  Aunt  Emma,  in 
bewilderment  at  Eileen's  whim,  had  proposed  coming 
with  her.  Now  she  would  have  been  glad  of  her  com- 
panionship. 

As  night  fell,  the  March  drizzle  deepened  into  a 
steady  rain.  Eileen  lay  sleepless  and  wretched,  listen- 
ing to  the  monotonous  patter,  all  the  old  fear  surging 
over  her.  She  could  not,  could  not  be  married !  In  vain 
she  argued  with  herself,  trying  to  shut  out  the  memory 
of  Victoria  Lenowska's  vow;  in  vain  she  put  from  her 
what  she  had  learned  of  her  father's  and  mother's  pain. 
She  told  herself  that  she  was  morbid  and  worn  out,  try- 
ing to  remember  those  she  had  known  who  had  wanted  to 
be  married,  wanted  what  she  now  longed  to  flee  away 
from;  none  of  her  efforts  at  reasoning  with  herself 
availed.  She  was  afraid,  with  a  sick  fear  that  left  her 
weak  and  trembling. 

For  many  days  she  wandered  about,  trying  to  think 

94 


DRIFT 

out  what  to  do.  If  shedid  not  marry  John,  what  then? 
She  could  not  go  on  with  her  life  as  it  had  been  before. 
She  supposed  all  girls  were  frightened  as  she  was  before 
giving  themselves  up,  yielding  to  what  seemed  the  only 
thing  possible  to  do.  Why  should  she  find  it  harder 
than  anyone  else? 

After  a  week  there  came  a  letter  from  John.  "I 
am  disobeying  you,"  he  wrote,  " because  I  cannot  stand 
this  anxiet}7".  What  has  happened?  What  can  I  do? 
Just  tell  me  that  you  are  well  and  I  will  try  and  be 
patient  until  I  have  some  further  word.  I  long  to  come 
to  you." 

She  sent  him  a  telegram  giving  him  permission  to 
come  in  a  few  days.  The  next  day  he  was  there,  troubled 
but  infinitely  tender  and  concerned.  He  made  no  move 
to  touch  her.  "Do  you  want  me  to  go  away  again?"  he 
asked. 

She  had  been  very  lonely  and  John  was  gentle.  She 
told  him,  "No." 

He  persuaded  her  to  go  for  a  walk  over  the  brown 
hills.  After  he  had  been  with  her  for  a  few  hours  she 
thought  herself  very  wrong  and  foolish  to  have  t>een 
so  frightened.  It  was  good  to  see  him  again,  good  to 
hear  his  voice;  the  loneliness  had  been  dreadful.  As 
she  turned  to  him,  John  became  himself  again,  happy 
and  confident.  He  told  her  of  his  distress  and  wonder, 
he  did  not  want  to  press  her,  but  she  must  trast  him, 
have  faith  in  him  that  all  would  be  well.  He  could 
not  lose  her  now.  he  could  not ;  he  would  wait,  he  would 
do  anything  but  give  her  up.  That  could  not  be.  They 
belonged  to  each  other.  Eileen  listened  and  gave  way. 
She  let  him  take  her  in  his  arms  and  hold  her,  she  was 
weak  and  tired  with  thinking.  It  was  good  to  be  lulled. 
She  begged  him  to  be  with  her  as  much  as  possible. 
"I  get  frightened  without  you,"  she  said. 

The  marriage  ceremony  took  place  in  late  May.  It  did 
95 


DRIFT 

not  differ  materially  from  other  spring  weddings,  save 
that,  Eileen  being  the  centre,  there  was  an  added  touch  of 
distinguished  grace  that  made  the  guests  exclaim  to  each 
other,  "  What  an  unusual  wedding !  How  odd  and  pretty 
for  the  bridesmaids  to  be  in  that  soft,  old  green I"  At 
one  period  of  the  discussion  of  preparations,  Eileen  had 
expressed  a  desire  for  a  wedding  garment  of  old  gold, 
but  Aunt  Emma  had  lifted  up  her  voice  in  such  a  wail 
of  dismayed  protest  that  Eileen  had  yielded. 

She  hated  to  wear  white,  but  it  was  in  white  she 
stood  with  John  before  several  impressive  personages 
in  full  canonicals  and  said  things  she  was  told  to  say 
and  gave  the  proper  responses  to  the  very  curious 
questions  they  put  to  her.  It  was  all  very  solemn  in- 
deed ;  eminently  well  calculated  to  give  the  idea  of  per- 
fnanence  and  inevitability  to  those  taking  the  principal 
parts  in  the  ceremony;  or  to  those  in  the  audience  con- 
templating a  similar  course ;  even — it  might  be  added — 
to  those  who  had  thought  they  might  unjoin  what — so 
it  was  clearly  stated — God  had  joined  together. 

When  the  proceedings  were  over,  Eileen  looked  at 
John  as  he  leaned  toward  her  and  thought  that  she  would 
try  and  remember  all  that  she  had  just  said. 

She  had  hardly  seen  him  during  the  weeks  preceding 
the  wedding;  there  had  been  such  a  multitude  of  things 
to  attend  to.  Now  they  were  to  be  always  together. 
They  were  to  go  first  to  the  Farm,  where  a  com- 
plete household  had  put  all  in  readiness.  Eileen  had 
demurred  at  this,  for  the  hours  she  had  spent  there  alone 
were  poignantly  in  her  mind  and  she  dreaded  the  asso- 
ciation ;  but  the  plan  seemed  the  best  one,  and  not  wish- 
ing to  give  her  reason,  she  made  no  objections 

When  they  found  themselves  alone  together,  John, 
believing  her  tired,  tried  his  utmost  to  ask  nothing  of 
her.  His  tenderness  was  great.  It  was  so  wonderful 
to  have  this  delicate,  beautiful  thing  he  cherished  there 

.96 


DRIFT 

with  him, — his  wife ;  he  would  wait  until  she  had  become 
used  to  his  presence,  until  she  would  turn  to  him  her- 
self, before  letting  her  feel  the  strength  of  his  great 
need  of  her. 

The  days  slipped  by  quietly  enough.  They  took  long 
walks  over  the  hills  and  fields  and  at  night  he  would 
often  read  her  to  sleep,  then  stealing  away  so  as  not  to 
disturb  her. 

John  was  happy.  He  tried  to  put  from  him  any 
thought  except  that  she  was  near  him.  Sometimes 
he  suffered,  for  a  wonder  came  over  him  whether  the 
woman  he  had  married  would  give  herself  to  him  fully 
and  freely  with  passionate  desire  for  his  caress.  He 
would  not  make  demands,  he  could  ask  nothing  of  her 
she  was  not  willing  to  give ;  so  the  days  and  nights  went 
by. 

They  seldom  spoke  of  their  relationship  to  each  other. 
John  could  not,  he  did  not  know  how,  and  Eileen  under- 
stood little  of  what  was  taking  place  in  his  mind.  Her 
fear  had  gone,  his  tenderness  and  concern  had  banished 
that.  She  was  glad  to  be  with  him,  glad  of  his  protect- 
ing touch.  She  knew  that  it  was  not  possible  their  lives 
could  go  on  like  this,  but  she  made  no  sign  and  gave 
no  word. 

One  night  John  came  to  her  very  late.  She  had  left 
I  him  reading  downstairs.  His  broken  words,  his  tight- 
\  ening  hands,  told  her  of  his  need.  She  was  passive  as 
N&e  let  him  take  her  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  spring  was  lovely  on  the  hills.  The  days,  with 
their  harmony  of  young  green  and  white  and  shining 
gold,  went  drifting  by.  Soon  the  jewelled  dandelions 
turned  to  fluffy  balls,  the  apple-blossoms  fell  to  make 
soft  snow  storms  on  the  grass,  the  lavender  of  lilacs 
and  the  pink  of  thorns  lifted  up  their  notes  of  colour 
to  mingle  with  the  deepening  symphony  of  greens.  The 
wrens  came  back,  twittering  and  cheeping  over  the  se- 
riousness of  their  affairs,  blackbirds  squawked  maternal 
and  paternal  anxieties  about  their  fledglings'  flights; 
the  world  seemed  intent  on  the  important  business  of 
creating  beauty. 

As  the  days  lengthened,  a  peace  descended  upon  the 
restless  spirit  of  Eileen.  She  yielded  gladly  to  the  man 
who  gave  her  such  encompassing  love.  She  had  been 
afraid,  but  his  tenderness  had  won  and  she  was  happy. 

John  was  as  one  transformed.  For  many  years  he 
had  starved  and  thirsted,  yet  had  remained  alone.  He 
was  unversed  in  the  ways  of  women.  He,  too,  was 
afraid — afraid  of  troubling,  afraid  of  asking  over  much. 
Eileen  was  so  delicate,  so  frail  a  thing,  she  must  al- 
ways be  considered  first;  he  kept  his  need  subordinate 
to  his  love. 

They  were  out  of  doors  all  day,  wooed  by  the  sweet 
wiles  of  June.     The  wood  by  the  river  was  their  fa- 

98 


DRIFT 

vourite  spot,  and  there  they  would  spend  hours,  lazily 
reading  or  talking.  Of  themselves  and  their  relation- 
ship to  each  other,  they  seldom  spoke.  To  John  the 
beauty  was  too  precious,  too  wonderful  to  put  into 
words;  for  Eileen  to  turn  to  him,  her  hand  held  out 
for  his,  was  enough.  Eileen  had  been  so  long  alone 
with  her  thoughts,  to  have  a  companion  was  all  she 
asked.  She  told  him  of  her  unhappy  brooding,  of  her 
wonder  whether  she  would  ever  care  for  anyone;  she 
even  confided  several  love  affairs,  but  of  Thorne  she 
never  spoke. 

John,  lying  on  the  grass,  touching  her  dress,  or  with 
a  hand  in  his  possession,  could  not  recover  from  his 
astonishment  that  he — plain  John  Templeton — had  won 
her.  For  a  space,  the  world  belonged  to  them  and  they 
were  happy ;  to  share  each  trifling  plan  or  event  became 
a  joy.  Each  day  held  a  store  of  unknown  possibilities 
to  explore  and  discover.  Often  they  would  glance 
quickly  at  each  other,  as  if  each  tried  to  see  the  effect 
on  the  other  first,  of  some  new  beauty. 

John  was  the  gayest  of  companions.  He  had  a  fund 
of  spirits  that  bubbled  forth  in  charming  and  unexpected 
ways.  It  seemed  as  if  his  gravity,  which  Eileen  had 
thought  a  part  of  him,  was  only  something  over-laid, 
something  life  had  taught  him.  He  was  glad  to  forget 
the  lesson.  Sometimes  his  nonsense  recalled  to  Eileen  the 
abandonment  of  his  remarks  on  the  evening  they  had 
first  met.  She  had  told  him  how  cruelly  he  had  em- 
barrassed her  on  that  occasion.  "I  was  embarrassed  my- 
self/' he  averred.  "I  was  profoundly  shocked  at  being 
so  impertinent  to  a  lady,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped. 
Moreover,  it  was  dastardly  of  me  to  curry  favour  through 
the  charming  fancies  of  that  worshipful  Italian  boy.  I 
must  have  been  thinking  of  Cyrano." 

Sometimes  he  would  play  mad,  elfin  music  to  her, 
flinging  his  violin  down  to  explain  to  her  what  it  said, 

99 


DRIFT 

laughing  at  her  efforts  to  understand;  sometimes  he 
would  be  almost  melancholy  and  suddenly  put  the  violin 
away  saying  that  he  would  not  play  again.  During  these 
days  Eileen  began  to  realize  the  tremendous  thing  that 
she  had  done.  It  was  only  at  times  she  felt  this,  when  a 
quick,  bewildered  look  from  John  made  her  question  her- 
self, wondering  what  he  would  ask  of  her  in  the  years 
to  come.  . 

She  looked  at  the  jewel  casket  on  her  dressing-table 
that  had  come,  in  those  first  days  of  their  engagement, 
with  his  message  that  it  held  "life  and  death.' '  She 
had  thought  the  words  charmingly  romantic.  Remem- 
bering, she  turned  to  John  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  "  'You 
see  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand,  ?  ' '  the  words  came 
brokenly,  pitifully,  "  'though  for  myself,  I  would  not 
wish  myself  much  better,  yet  for  you — I  would  be 
trebled  twenty  times  myself — '  Oh,  John,  John  dear! 
How  can  I  be  'trebled  twenty  times  myself?'  Who  is 
there  to  show  me  what  to  do?  I  long  to  be — for  you! 
You'll  know  some  day  what  I  mean — what  I  really 
am — how  little — Jiow  inadequate!  And  then,  what  will 
come — what  will  come?" 

He  soothed  her  bitter  weeping  with  adoring  words — 
"Foolish,  foolish  one!  His  worshipped  one,  his  'royal 
lady,'  his  beloved,  to  feel  inadequate!"  If  she  would 
only  stop  crying  she  would  see  that  it  was  funny — posi- 
tively funny.  Could  she  but  know  how  he  had  wondered 
whether  he  dared  take  her  happiness  into  his  keeping, 
whether  he  had  a  right,  even  with  his  great  love,  to 
ask  so  precious  a  gift.  He  longed  to  give  all — and  more 
than  all  that  he  was — that  he  could  make  of  himself, 
to  her. 

But  Eileen  could  not  be  comforted.  "Aunt  Emma 
told  me  once  that  my  father  asked  my  mother  to  be  more 
than  she  could  be.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  be  like  that — if 
you — "    She  gazed  at  him,  terror  in  her  eyes.  John  could 

100 


DEIET 

find  no  words  to  ease  her  pain;  it  was  days  before  the 
shadow  passed. 


They  used  to  bring  home  tiny  ferns  and  young  grow- 
ing things  from  their  expeditions  to  the  woods,  and 
these  accumulating,  Eileen  had  a  fancy  they  should 
be  arranged  into  a  miniature  Japanese  garden.  She 
set  to  work  one  morning,  with  several  amused  garden- 
ers to  help,  and  for  two  days  John  was  a  surprised 
spectator  of  her  capacity  for  toil.  As  everything  she 
did  seemed  to  him  wholly  entrancing,  he  stood  about  aijd 
admired,  unconscious  that  the  " garden' '  was  shortly 
to  provide  him  with  a  shock. 

By  means  of  mirrors  and  bits  of  stone  and  bark, 
with  odd  plants  from  a  near-by  greenhouse  to  supple- 
ment the  original  ferns,  something  resembling  a  Jap- 
anese garden  was  ultimately  effected.  When  diminutive 
and  very  ancient  pine-trees  had  been  added,  Eileen  de- 
clared it  a  work  of  art.  She  was  enchanted  with  her 
handiwork  and  immediately  desired  a  bronze  Buddha  to 
complete  the  picture.  A  telegram  to  New  York  procured 
a  Buddha,  who  was  duly  enshrined  and  sat  smiling 
blandly  amid  his  new  surroundings. 

Unfortunately  there  was  an  insufficient  supply  of 
earth  under  the  garden,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the 
growing  things  around  Buddha  began  to  fade.  Eileen  was 
disconcerted,  the  sun  had  been  hot  as  she  worked,  and 
now  behold  the  garden  a  miserable  object.  She  ordered 
the  sad  looking  plants  removed.  "I  think  I'll  save  Bud- 
dha," she  said.  "He's  rather  nice,  don't  you  think f" 
She  put  him  on  the  mantle,  where  he  continued  to  sit  and 
smile. 

A  few  days  later,  Eileen,  opening  her  letters,  gave  an 
exclamation.  *  *  My  goodness,  John ! ' '  she  said,  gazing  at 
a  bill,  "what  do  you  think?    Buddha  cost  two  thousand 

101 


DRIFT 

dollars.  I  didn't  know  he  was  a  good  one,  I  must 
go  and  look  at  him." 

John  was  startled.  The  cost  of  the  tiny  ancient  pine- 
trees  had  surprised  him  a  good  deal.  " Can't  you  send 
it  back?"  he  asked. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Eileen,  "but  he's  rather  nice 
where  he  is,  against  that  yellow  brocade!  Why  not 
keep  him  now  he 's  here  ?  I  tell  you  I  have  a  discerning 
eye,  I  thought  he  wore  a  superior  air  when  I  took  him 
from  the  box." 

John  wanted  to  make  further  protests;  he  did  not 
consider  Buddha  even  an  ornament,  but  he  reflected 
Eileen  was  at  liberty  to  buy  what  she  chose  and  held 
his  peace. 

After  a  month  of  their  "dream  life,"  as  John  called 
it,  a  big  sealed  package  of  mail  was  brought  to  him  one 
morning,  and  he  forthwith  abstracted  himself  from 
the  world  around.  Eileen  spoke  to  him  once  or  twice 
and  received  only  a  vague  word.  He  had  suddenly  be- 
come a  distant  being,  aloof  and  unapproachable.  After 
about  an  hour  of  waiting  she  went  over  and  kissed  him 
on  the  forehead.  He  put  up  his  hand  and  patted  her 
and  went  on  reading.  She  rose  slowly  and  opened  the 
door,  preparatory  to  departure,  but  he  made  no  sign. 
This  was  awful;  she  went  upstairs  and  cried. 

The  next  day  a  young  man  from  "the  office"  ap- 
peared with  more  papers,  and  he  and  John  were  closeted 
together  all  of  the  morning.  Eileen  came  to  the  door 
and  was  courteously  greeted.  She  was  given  a  chair 
and  invited  to  sit  down,  but  that  was  all.  It  was  very 
strange.     After  a  little  she  wandered  off,  unobserved. 

Gradually  it  came  over  her  that  John  was  a  busy 
person.  She  had  never  seen  any  busy  people  except 
at  the  settlement  and  that  was  from  rather  far  off. 
At  luncheon  she  asked  him  what  he  and  the  young  man 
had  been  talking  about.     He  started  to  tell  her.     She 

102 


DEIFT 

wanted  to  understand  and  asked  several  questions,  ele- 
mentary in  character.  John  was  a  true  American;  he 
considered  his  wife  as  something  quite  apart  from  busi- 
ness. Seeing  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  go  into  de- 
tail to  make  her  understand,  he  put  the  matter  aside. 
" After  our  honeymoon,"  he  said. 

Coming  in  from  the  garden  one  morning,  she  found 
that  John  had  left  for  town  after  a  long-distance  tele- 
phone call.  There  was  a  note  for  her  and  he  had  left 
a  good-bye,  as  the  servant  had  not  been  able  to  find 
her.  Mr.  Templeton  would  be  at  home  by  the  next  night, 
probably;  he  would  wire  or  telephone,  of  course.  "I 
think  there's  some  kind  of  trouble  at  the  factory, 
Ma  'am,"  the  butler  volunteered,  "Mr.  Templeton  seemed 
worried.,, 

Eileen  was  startled  and  a  little  resentful.  What 
could  be  the  circumstances  that  necessitated  such  an 
abrupt  leave? 

In  the  evening  came  a  telephone  call.  Eileen  hur- 
ried to  answer,  only  to  find  that  it  was  someone  else 
speaking.  Mr.  Templeton  wished  Mrs.  Templeton  to 
be  informed  that  there  had  been  an  accident,  one  of 
the  women  at  the  factory  had  been  seriously  injured. 
Mr.  Templeton  hoped  to  get  home  by  the  next  evening, 
\)\it  was  not  sure. 

The  new  wife;  thus  deserted,  found  the  hours  long. 
Late  the  next  night,  John  appeared,  very  tired  and 
distressed  over  the  accident,  which  he  said  was  inex- 
cusable. There  had  been  great  carelessness  somewhere, 
the  matter  must  be  thoroughly  sifted:  might  he  have 
something  to  eat,  as  he  had  had  nothing  since  morning. 
There  had  been  a  great  many  people  to  see  and  things 
to  be  looked  into.  He  might  have  to  go  back  in  a  day 
or  so.  Of  course  he  would  pay,  do  everything  he  could; 
it  was  detestable,  all  the  heartless  precautions  that  had 
to  be  taken  simply  out  of  fear,  because  of  those  scoun- 

103 


DRIFT 

drelly  lawyers  that  always  battened  oix  cases  like  this. 
They  were  the  greatest  knaves  unhung.  He  could  never 
make  the  operatives  understand  that,  with  all  the  safety 
devices  in  the  world,  their  safety  must  rest,  ultimately, 
on  themselves,  on  their  own  care  and  thought.  He  could 
not  foresee  or  guard  against  recklessness. 

After  he  had  had  supper  and  lighted  a  cigar,  he 
asked  what  she  had  been  doing.  It  was  good  to  come 
back  to  her ;  had  she  wanted  him,  missed  him  very  much? 
He  held  her  close  and  Eileen  was  happy  in  his  presence, 
his  caress. 

In  a  few  moments  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the 
events  of  the  day.  He  could  not  rid  himself,  he  said, 
from  the  sense  of  personal  responsibility.  There  had 
been  a  man  killed  some  years  before ;  it  had  been  the  man's 
own  fault,  but  there  would  always  be  that  haunting 
sense  that  it  might  have  been  prevented.  He  sometimes 
wished  he  was  one  of  the  operatives  himself,  with  no 
further  responsibility  than  a  day's  work  and  a  pay 
envelope  on  Saturday  night.  He  believed  that  was  the 
truest  way  to  live  anyhow.  In  this  case  the  woman  was 
actually  disobeying  orders.  The  overseer  had  just 
called  sharply  to  her  when  she  turned  and  her  arm  was 
caught  and  crushed.  There  was  a  hope  of  saving  it,  the 
doctors  said,  but  not  much;  a  day  or  two  would  show. 
Meanwhile  he  had  only  been  able  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  every  care  possible. 

Eileen  grieved  with  him.  She  could  understand  his 
concern  and  anger,  she  said,  when  disobeying  orders 
was  so  directly  the  cause. 

John  had  no  idea  as  he  talked  how  she  recoiled  from 
the  scenes  he  described.  The  thought  of  suffering  was  al- 
ways terrible  to  her,  and  the  incident  at  the  factory 
seemed  to  bring  sharply  home  to  her  consciousness  that 
side  of  life  which  at  times  haunted  her  by  its  ugliness. 
A  sort  of  rage  of  regret  filled  her  for  those  who  were  de- 

104 


DRIFT 

nied  that  which  was  so  necessary  to  her — light,  beauty, 
graciousness ;  and  when  in  addition  accidents  occurred, 
it  seemed  unbearable.  The  only  easement  she  could  find 
was  in  giving  money.  She  suggested  this  now,  but  John 
assured  her  that  everything  had  been  done  for  the 
present. 

After  John  was  asleep,  wearied  from  the  anxiety  of 
the  day,  Eileen  lay  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the 
summer  night,  thinking  of  what  he  had  told  her. 
Against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky,  she  could  see  the  wav- 
ing outlines  of  the  hovering  trees ;  now  and  again  a  hoot 
owl  sent  its  eerie  call  quivering  through  the  night.  She 
got  up  and  stood  at  the  window  watching  the  quiet 
scene.  The  lawn  stretched  out,  dim  and  soft  and  dark ; 
a  great  bed  of  white  iris  at  the  far  end  shimmered  its 
blossoms  in  the  summer  night  sending  out  its  call;  the 
sleeping  world  was  very  fair.  Eileen  watched  the  still 
beauty,  asking  herself,  ''Why,  why  must  there  be  pain?" 

In  the  morning  she  was  surprised  to  find  John  re- 
freshed and  ready  for  their  tramp  across  the  hills.  The 
accident  seemed  quite  gone  from  his  mind,  or  at  least 
held  in  abeyance  until  such  time  as  further  consideration 
would  be  necessary.  When  they  came  in  there  was  a 
telegram  reporting  the  woman's  condition  as  more  hope- 
ful. 

Two  days  later  as  they  were  at  luncheon,  a  request 
came  by  telephone  for  his  presence  at  the  factory.  He 
went  upstairs  at  once  to  pack  a  valise.  Eileen  took  a 
sudden  resolution.  Summoning  Sophie,  they  both  made 
hasty  preparations,  and  when  John  came  down,  he  gazed 
astonished  at  a  lovely  wife,  hatted  and  gloved  and  ready 
to  accompany  him.  And  that  was  not  all;  beside  her 
were  a  variety  of  bags  and  in  addition  a  sizable 
hamper,  which  showed  signs  of  leaking. 

1  'My  dear!"  John  exclaimed,  "I  can't  take  you! 
There'll  be  nothing  for  you  to  do.     I  shall  get  back 

105 


DRIFT 

tomorrow  night.''  John  had  a  small  apartment  ad- 
joining his  offices  at  the  factory  that  he  found  ade- 
quate, but  he  could  not  imagine  Eileen  there; 
nor  could  he  see  her  partaking  of  the  fare  provided  by 
a  near-by  boarding-house  or  the  lunch  counter  of  the 
employees. 

' '  Can 't  I  be  of  use  at  all  ? ' '  Eileen  asked.  * '  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  have  me  come,  just  to  be  with  you  and 
perhaps  I  could  go  and  see  the  girl  and  do  something  to 
help?" 

John  laughed  and  caught  her  to  him.  If  he  would 
not  let  her  come,  it  was  infinitely  sweet  to  him  that  she 
had  wanted  to  do  so.  There  was  little  time  for  discus- 
sion. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  as  the  hamper  was  selected 
from  among  Eileen  's  bags  and  placed  in  the  motor. 

"Just  a  few  things  I  thought  the  poor  woman  might 
like,"  Eileen  explained.  "Will  it  be  troublesome?  So- 
phie was  going  to  carry  it." 

John  lifted  it  to  test  the  weight.  A  few  drops  of 
water  falling  on  his  trousers  sealed  the  fate  of  the 
hamper. 

"It's  the  ice,  I  suppose,"  said  Eileen  ruefully; 
"Can't  you  get  her  some  flowers  or  something?  Ill 
go  to  the  station  with  you. ' ' 

The  car  whirled  down  the  driveway.  She  wished  he 
had  not  to  go,  wished  that  he  would  let  her  go  with  him 
and  try  to  help;  it  was  all  rather  bewildering.  She 
waved  him  a  good-bye  with  her  eyes  wet. 

The  next  day  she  had  a  telegram  saying  that  the 
woman's  arm  would  be  saved  without  permanent  dis- 
ablement and  satisfactory  settlement  had  been  made. 
"Might  send  hamper  contents  by  express  if  you  like. 
Sorry  could  not  bring  them." 

Superintending  the  packing  of  the  basket  and  get- 
ting it  off  occupied  some  hours  happily  and  late  in  the 

106 


DRIFT 

afternoon  John  got  back.  Eileen  was  in  her  room,  and 
he  came  to  her,  eager  and  happy.  "  Beloved,  oh  my 
beloved !"  he  held  her  and  would  not  let  her  go.  "My 
arms  are  starved  for  you!" 

After  several  visits  from  the  "young  man  from  the 
office' '  John  announced  that  his  "holiday  in  heaven " 
was  over  and  there  was  work  to  be  done  on  earth.  He 
would  spend  four  days  a  week  in  town  and  three  in  the 
country  while  they  were  at  the  Farm.  He  suggested 
breakfasting  in  the  dining-room  the  following  morning 
at  seven-thirty  as  more  conducive  to  a  business  frame 
of  mind.  Didn't  Eileen  think  it  was  just  a  bit  messy 
anyway,  having  breakfast  upstairs,  and  it  took  so  long 
to  get  more  of  anything. 

Eileen  appeared  at  the  early  breakfast  clad  in  a 
diaphanous  garment  of  pale  blue.  On  her  head  was  a 
little  bonnet  of  gold  net  bedecked  with  a  black  poppy. 
Her  hair  was  about  her  shoulders,  and  she  looked  very 
lovely  and  very  sleepy.  She  had  had  her  bath,  she  said, 
but  Sophie  never  came  when  she  rang,  so  she  couldn't 
get  any  more  dressed.    She  wanted  to  be  a  dutiful  wife. 

On  the  polished  dining-room  table,  one  at  each  end, 
were  two  daintily  appointed  breakfast  trays.  "How 
funny  the  table  looks,"  said  Eileen.  "Is  that  the  way  it 
ought  to  be?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John;  "it  doesn't  matter,  does 
it?  The  main  question  is  food.  Where  is  it?  I've  only 
about  fifteen  minutes." 

After  ringing  frantically  but  unavailingly  Eileen  dis- 
appeared, returning  shortly  with  a  plate. 

"But  there's  nothing  on  it!"  said  John.  "I've  got 
a  plate." 

"I've  scolded  them,"  she  said;  "it'll  be  here  in  a 
minute.    I  'm  sure  those  trays  aren  't  right. ' ' 

"There's  a  big  silver  thing  at  our  house,"  said  John. 
107 


DRIFT 

"  Mother  manages  it  and  coffee  appears.  I  never  noticed 
how.  I  don't  think  there  are  trays.  Didn't  we  get  lots 
of  coffee  pots?" 

"Five,"  said  Eileen,  and  disappeared  pantry- wards 
again  as  John  looked  at  his  watch.  This  time  she  re- 
turned with  a  trail  of  servants,  each  bearing  a  dish. 
She  made  a  low  obeisance,  her  hands  at  her  forehead, 
palms  out.  "My  lord  is  served,"  she  said.  John  was 
obliged  to  forego  part  of  his  breakfast  time,  she  looked 
so  enchantingly  lovely  standing  by  him,  anxious  to  know 
if  all  was  to  his  liking. 

After  he  had  gone,  Eileen  was  very  lonely.  She  had 
a  serious  conversation  with  the  butler  and  then  the  cook, 
who  both  expressed  contrition.  The  cook  said,  "Sure, 
Miss  Eileen 's  husband  can  have  his  breakfast  any  time ! ' ' 
Afterwards  they  all  three  considered  the  proper  arrange- 
ment of  a  breakfast  table.  "It  must  look  prettier," 
Eileen  decreed.  Next  she  read  the  newspaper.  Then 
she  picked  some  roses  and  arranged  them  and  won- 
dered what  she  should  do  until  night.  She  had  won- 
dered the  same  thing  many  times  before  at  the  Farm. 
She  was  rather  surprised  that  she  should  still  be  doing 
so  after  she  was  married. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AS  the  maples  began  to  turn  red  and  gold  Eileen  said 
they  must  go  to  town.  There  was  a  great  deal  to  be 
done. 

There  seemed  to  be.  John  could  not  be  made  to  un- 
derstand why  it  took  so  much  time  and  attention  to 
prepare  a  house  for  habitation.  He  said  the  houses  he 
had  lived  in  were  always  ready,  with  beds  and  tables 
and  things  like  that.  He  had  never  thought  about 
how  they  got  there.  He  remembered  that  his  mother 
had  come  up  and  arranged  his  rooms  when  he  first  went 
to  college,  but  after  she  had  gone  he  took  out  a  lot  of 
things.  She  had  said  his  sitting-room  looked  " bleak' ' 
when  she  came  up  to  visit  him  and  enquired  for  certain 
articles  of  furniture.  He  laughed  as  he  recalled  the  in- 
cident. "It  developed  the  blessed  woman  had  given 
me  some  family  heirlooms,  and  I'd  bundled  'em  off 
somewhere.  However,  the  janitor  hunted  them  up  and 
all  was  well.', 

Eileen  looked  serious.  "Are  you  attached  to  the 
'heirlooms'?"  she  enquired. 

"Lord,  no!"  John  assured  her;  "don't  get  frightened. 
The  mater  didn't  think  I  was  appreciative,  so  they  were 
bestowed  upon  the  helpless  Julia." 

"It  is  hard  to  combine  things,  you  know,"  Eileen 
looked  around  Aunt  Emma's  dark  library,  remember- 

109 


DRIFT 

ing  her  efforts,  "The  old  things — I  mean  old  things  like 
these — get  stubborn  and  disagreeable.  They  seem  soft 
and  comfortable  and  nice  until  you  try  to  put  them 
in  different  positions  and  then  you  find  you  can't." 

John  laughed.  "Like  their  owners,"  he  said,  " there 
is  steel  inside." 

Eileen  was  in  a  state  of  joyful  excitement  over  her 
new  house.  She  spent  her  days  hunting  down  treas- 
ures of  old  and  odd  furniture  and  would  come  home 
exhausted  but  radiant  over  new  acquisitions.  Stuffs 
and  samples  of  all  kinds  lay  about.  She  had  a  pleasant 
impression  that  all  silk  things  could  be  had  from  "John's 
factory"  free  of  cost.  It  was  a  disappointment  but  not 
a  deterrent  to  find  this  not  to  be  the  case. 

Mrs.  Templeton,  Senior,  thought  the  house  John  had 
taken  a  very  large  one  for  two  young  people,  but  she 
forebore  comment.  Aunt  Emma  thought  so,  too.  They 
shook  their  heads  a  little,  remarking  times  had  changed. 

The  two  ladies  admired  each  other  distantly.  They 
were  always  extremely  cordial,  but  underneath,  each 
wondered  how  her  darling  would  fare  at  the  hands  of 
the  person  the  other  had  brought  up. 

They  united  their  praises  for  the  beauty  of  the  new 
house.  The  drawing-room  was  grey  and  white.  On 
the  floor  of  dull  black  tile  were  old  Chinese  rugs  of 
rich  colours  and  there  were  jars  of  grey-white  and 
faint  rose.  An  old  lacquer  screen  radiated  dim  beauty. 
Buddha  was  promoted  to  a  place  of  honour,  enquiries 
into  his  history  bringing  out  the  fact  that  his  origin 
was  highly  ancient  and  honourable.  The  room  was  a 
curious  combination;  it  was  almost  austere,  yet  it  had 
an  indefinable  air  of  softness  and  exotic  grace. 

Aunt  Emma  Endicott  sat  herself  down  with  a  dubious 
air  upon  the  various  peculiar  pieces  of  furniture,  one 
after  another,  to  test  them.  She  said  she  preferred  up- 
holstered things  herself,   but   acknowledged   that   the 

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cushions  of  soft,  old  brocaded  stuffs  made  the  straight- 
lined  chairs  and  couches  comfortable. 

Eileen's  own  apartments  were  in  mauve  and  blue 
and  silver ;  Chinese  embroideries  were  everywhere,  glow- 
ing in  their  faded  colour  like  clouded  jewels. 

Eileen  revelled,  in  colour ;  sometimes  startlingly  bril- 
liant— one  room  was  in  black  and  white  with  flashes 
of  scarlet — yet  she  used  it  with  such  delicacy  of  re- 
straint that  the  effect  was  like  perfume,  caressing, — 
sensed  rather  than  seen. 

"How  did  you  know  how  to  do  it?"  said  Mrs.  Tem- 
pleton,  looking  around.  "It  is  so  different  from  any- 
thing one  sees  and  so  perfect,  so  indescribably  yours.' ' 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  Eileen  answered.  "I've  en- 
joyed doing  it,"  and  indeed  the  "knowing  how"  seemed 
an  instinct.  Unerringly  she  obtained  effects  in  which 
she  herself  shone  as  a  jewel  in  a  setting  of  perfect  grace. 
It  was  not  conscious ;  she  needed  to  be  so  surrounded  to 
be  happy. 

Julia  Templeton  wandered  about  and  made  no  com- 
ments. Finally  she  remarked,  "It's  funny  how  a 
man  changes  when  he  gets  married."  Aunt  Emma  bent 
upon  her  an  enquiring  eye,  but  Julia  did  not  heed. 

"Behold,"  said  John,  coming  in,  "the  softening  and 
refining  influence  of  woman!  I  am  to  live  in  this 
fairy  land  of  loveliness.  Expect  soon  to  hear  me  speak 
in  dithyrambs." 

John  was  happy  at  Eileen's  pleasure  and  uncritically 
appreciative  of  the  beauty  she  created,  but  dumb- 
founded at  the  bills.  His  surprised  protests  met  with 
such  gay  lack  of  comprehension  he  soon  held  his  peace. 
* '  But  John, ' '  Eileen  would  explain,  ' '  that  is  good !  It 's 
real  seventeenth  century.    Couldn't  you  have  told?" 

No,  John  could  not  have  told,  but  he  learned  in  a 
short  time  how  the  centuries  count  up.  He  sought 
the  head  of  the  firm  of  lawyers  having  in  charge  mat- 
in 


DEIFT 

ters  pertaining  to  the  Picardy  estate.  John  had  been 
scrupulously  careful  at  the  time  of  their  marriage  that 
Eileen  should  retain  all  control  over  her  income,  but 
it  seemed  well  to  find  out  whether  she  were  exceeding  it. 

The  bald-headed  lawyer  threw  up  his  hands.  He  ap- 
peared to  think  that  John  had  a  mionumental  task.  "I 
never  minded  her  expenditures  so  much,"  he  said,  "at 
least  there 's  something  to  show  for  them.  It  's  those  crazy 
gifts  she  makes  that  are  the  devil,  and  then  shell  for- 
get. You  never  know  what's  coming  in  to  be  paid. 
There's  Delia  0 'Houlihan  or  Maggie  O'Hara  or  Ole 
Olson  or  some  Rudolfo  Tutti  Frutti  person  that  she 
thinks  can  sing, — Lord  knows  who  all,  no  end  to  'em. 
There's  always  some  perfectly  good  reason, — Delia's 
sister's  children  have  to  go  to  the  country  or  Ole  Olson's 
brother  has  consumption  at  a  sanatarium,  and  so  it 
goes.  You  love  her  for  it,  of  course,  but  it's  crazy, 
perfectly  crazy.  Oh,  yes,  she'll  exceed  her  income, 
that  goes  without  saying,  and  then  she'll  wheedle  you. 
Want  to  take  charge?    I'll  trust  you." 

John  laughed  and  declined.  He  thought  over  the 
words  on  his  way  home — "It's  perfectly  crazy,  but 
you  love  her  for  it."    He  did  indeed,  "love  her  for  it." 

"Mother,"  he  said  one  day,  "how  much  do  ladies' 
dresses  cost?" 

"It  depends  on  the  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton,  "for 
beautiful  ladies  they  cost  a  very  great  deal." 

John  grinned.  "And  how  much  do  ladies'  fur  coats 
cost?" 

"As  much  as  a  king's  ransom  in  a  fairy  tale,"  was  the 
only  answer  she  would  give. 

Every  day  or  so  John  went  to  his  mother's  house. 
Sometimes  Eileen  went  with  him,  more  often  she  would 
urge  his  going  alone,  saying  she  was  sure  it  would  give 
his  mother  greater  pleasure.  "Just  think,  John,  how 
terrible  for  her,  having  you  come  home  to  me  instead  of  to 

112 


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her,  at  night !  Do  you  think,  oh  do  you  think,  she  will 
love  me  a  little?  I  want  her  to  so  much,  but  I  don't 
see  how  she  can." 

Mrs.  Templeton  had  begged  for  a  visit  "to  get  ac- 
quainted," but  Eileen  had  pleaded  to  "go  home  to  Aunt 
Emma's,"  and  now  their  afternoon  visits  seemed  a  little 
ceremonious.  Eileen  was  not  at  ease  with  John  's  mother. 
She  could  not  tell  why,  for  the  elder  woman's  kindness 
was  unfailing. 

When  he  was  with  his  mother,  John  missed  something. 
The  old  intimacy  of  their  common  thought-life,  the 
spontaneity  of  expression  was  gone.  There  was  with- 
holding. Deeply  tender  as  his  mother  was,  a  curious 
formality  had  come  between  them.  Said  Julia,  "I  wish 
J  didn't  feel  Eileen  was  sending  you  to  call  on  us,  it 
kills  my  merry  chatter." 

By  December  invitations  began  to  pour  in.  They 
came  by  every  mail ;  they  piled  up  in  the  big  blue  bowl 
in  Eileen's  morning  room;  they  overflowed  and  were 
pinned  together  in  a  long  streamer  from  her  dressing 
table: — teas,  musicals,  balls,  dinners,  the  opera,  lunch- 
eons,— there  seemed  no  end.  They  overlapped  and  in- 
terfered and  made  each  other  impossible — these  im- 
portunate, exacting,  unrestrained  invitations;  they 
jostled  and  pushed  each  other  shockingly;  between 
them,  they  almost  murdered  Time.  "Isn't  everybody 
Jrind?"  said  Eileen. 

Each  night  they  went  forth, — Eileen  in  the  lovely 
things  of  golden  half-tones  she  affected;  John  in  cor- 
rect black  and  white — to  greet  their  fellows ;  to  smile  and 
eat  and  talk  and  dance  and  whirl ;  or  else  the  gay,  per- 
fumed throng  came  to  them — tone  or  the  other. 

As  Mrs.  John  Templeton.  with  a  beautiful  new  house 
of  her  own  to  be  admired,  Eileen  found  "all  this"  more 
to  her  taste  than  when,  as  the  niece  of  a  busily  phil- 

113 


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anthropic  lady,  she  had  "come  out"  with  a  tea.  She 
was  entranced  with  new  possibilities  and  found  amuse- 
ments in  planning  odd  entertainments  where  her  flare 
for  unique  effects  had  full  swing.  There  was  a  "  phan- 
tom play,"  where  the  guests  were  grey-clad  spirits  mov- 
ing to  ghostly  music  in  dimly  lighted  halls:  suddenly 
a  wild  dance  by  a  flock  of  demons  in  mad  array,  who 
whirled  through  their  revel  with  unearthly  cries  and 
vanished:  next,  a  seraphic  boy's  voice  soaring  with 
piercing  sweetness,  up,  up,  up — transporting  the  startled 
listeners  to  a  far  region  of  white  cold,  of  frozen  beauty, 
where  dwelt  perpetual  purity.  No  wonder  everyone 
loved  to  come.  Eileen  was  adored;  she  was  highly  dec- 
orative. 

John  found  himself  in  a  new  world,  an  enchanted 
world,  where  all  was  graceful,  lovely  and  exciting;  but 
after  a  little  while,  in  some  peculiar  way,  it  was  for  him 
unreal.  He  was  not  an  integral  part.  It  all  seemed 
to  go  by  on  the  outside,  leaving  him  charmed,  but  be- 
wildered, a  spectator  at  a  show.  He  watched  Eileen, 
saw  other  people's  pleasure  at  her  coming  and  felt  proud. 
He  tried  to  keep  on  feeling  nroud  enough,  for  as  the 
winter  wore  on  it  seemed  to  him  he  saw  her  only  at  a 
distance.  He  damned  himself  for  a  selfish  brute  because 
his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  riverside,  to  those  evenings 
alone  amid  the  stillness  of  the  Connecticut  hills. 

In  March  they  took  a  two  weeks'  trip  to  the  South. 
The  days  were  precious.  "Heaven  revisited,"  John 
called  it ;  here  was  happiness  and  tranquillity  and  rest. 
Eileen  was  eager  to  do  all  that  he  wished,  and  for  a 
little  space  the  mountains  of  Virginia  became  as  per- 
fect a  setting  for  love-making  as  the  Connecticut  valley. 

As  they  sat  under  the  pines  in  a  lovely  spot  they  had 
found  and  appropriated  as  theirs,  Eileen  grew  thought- 
ful.   Finally  she  said,  "John,  I  wish  I  were  bigger." 

"You  are  as  high  as  my  heart,"  said  John  lazily,  "I 
114 


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don't  want  yon  any  bigger.  I  don't  want  anything 
in  the  world  different  from  what  it  js,  at  least,  I  don't 
just  this  minute." 

"That  is  a  pretty  but  very  selfish  answer." 

"Quoted."  John  gave  her,  "sorry  I  can't  claim  it. 
Why  be  bigger?    What  do  you  want  to  reach  to?" 

"You." 

"Oh!"  John  sat  up  and  looked  at  her. 

"You  look  so  foolish  with  all  those  pine  needles  in 
your  hair,"  said  Eileen,  "make  yourself  tidy  and  sit 
'way  over  there  so  we  can  talk.  I  want  to  be  serious; 
I  've  had  it  on  my  mind  for  a  long  time,  to  talk  to  you, 
I  mean." 

"Dear  me!"  said  John,  feeling  his  hair,  "you  make 
me  feel  very  guilty,  somehow.  Couldn't  you  manage 
a  lighter  tone  ?  The  sun  and  the  lovely  smells  and  those 
high  branches  up  there  all  seem  so  cheerful!  Was  it 
the  trees  made  you  want  to  grow,  perhaps  ?  Go  on,  I  'm 
tidy  and  attentive."  He  leaned  against  a  pine-tree 
opposite  her,  embraced  his  knees  with  two  lean  brown 
hands  and  waited. 

Eileen  paid  no  heed.  "You  are  flippant,"  she  said. 
John  nodded  and  agreed  that  he  was.  It  was  probably 
the  pine  needles  in  his  hair.  Mightn't  they  act  like 
vine  leaves? 

"I'd  like  to  be  as  high  as  your  head,"  she  said,  "and 
I'm  not.  I  can't  think  the  things  you  think  about.  I 
don't  know  what  they  mean." 

"God  be  thanked!"  John  put  in. 

"You  are  not  very  encouraging  to  a  person  trying  to 
talk  seriously."  Eileen's  tone  had  become  very  grave. 
John  moved  over  and  took  a  hand  for  comfort. 

"What  kind  of  things?" 

"Business,  of  course." 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  about  business?" 

"How  it's  run— what  else?" 

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DRIFT 

"But  why  do  you  want  Jo  know  that?" 

"So  as  to  be  a  better  wife  to  you.  Don't  you  re- 
member I  told  you  I  wanted  to  be  adequate.  I  do  want 
to  be!" 

John  kissed  the  hand.  "But  I  didn't  marry  you 
to  help  me  in  my  business." 

"No,  of  course  not,  but  I'm  so  ignorant,  so  useless 
as  an  advisor!  I  wish  I  knew  more,  I  wish  I'd  been 
educated  differently!  Couldn't  I  go  to  a  business  col- 
lege?" 

"I  suppose  you  could.  I  think  they  teach  short- 
hand and  stenography.  If  you  were  to  do  that  for 
me  I  couldn't  do  any  business." 

"Oh,  John,  please  don't  talk  idiocies.  I'm  trying  to 
tell  you  I  want  to  improve  myself,  want  to  know  more, 
so  you  won't  find  me  stupid  and  lacking.  That's  not 
a  foolish  idea,  yet  you  make  it  seem  so." 

John  put  his  arms  around  her.  He  was  touched  and 
therefore  became  silent.  He  saw  her  sincerity,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  difficult  to  lay  out  a  proper  course  of  in- 
struction.   He  held  her  close. 

"Now — you  see!"  said  Eileen,  "you  think  everything 
is  all  right  if  you  can  hold  me;  that  doesn't  make  me 
any  more  intelligent,  does  it  ? " 

"But,  my  dear,  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  said  John. 
"I  certainly  don't  expect  you  to  have  a  hand  in  busi- 
ness; the  idea  seems  absurd,  you  don't  know  anything 
about  it;  it's  perfectly  adorable  of  you,  of  course — " 

"Couldn't  vou  explain  to  me, — about  things?" 

"Why,  V\\  try  to  gladly." 

"I  never  heard  anybody  speak  in  a  tone  conveying 
less  expectancy  of  success,"  said  Eileen.  "Come,  let's 
go  home.    It 's  cold. ' ' 

On  their  walk  back  to  the  hotel  John  tried  to  plan 
a  visit  to  the  "Works"  on  their  return,  promising  to 
take  her  all  over  them.    She  should  ask  questions,  he 

116 


DRIFT 

said,  and  he  would  explain  everything — the  whole  proc- 
ess. It  was  all  in  vain;  she  would  have  none  of  the 
subject  nor  did  she  recur  to  it  during  their  stay. 

There  was  a  little  spurt  of  post-Lenten  gayety,  and 
to  John's  dismay  when  they  returned,  engagements 
piled  up  ahead.  One  night  he  protested.  He  was  very 
tired,  he  could  not,  would  not  go.  Eileen  was  con- 
cerned. She  flew  to  the  telephone,  coming  back  to  soothe 
and  pet  him  till  he  felt  like  a  hypocrite. 

Next  day  she  announced  that  she  had  cancelled  every 
engagement ;  they  were  free. 

"It  took  me  nearly  all  day,"  she  said.  "It  was  so 
hard,  thinking  up  enough  excuses !" 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  would  be  so  drastic,"  John 
laughed.    "It's  fine,  but  rather  rude,  I'm  afraid." 

"Oh,  but  I  wrote  such  polite  notes!"  Eileen  looked 
serious.  "I'm  sure  no  one  will  mind."  She  was  filled 
with  uneasy  compunctions  at  the  suggestion.  "I  hate 
the  idea  of  being  rude,"  she  said,  frowning. 

' '  I  know  you  do,  bless  you ! ' '  John  said.  * '  There 's  no 
one  like  you.  Being  rude  is  a  crime  in  your  code,  isn't 
it?" 

"It  makes  people  look  sad  and  miserable,"  said  Eileen, 
"and  that's  a  pity." 

"How  do  you  know,"  John  asked  her,  "since  you 
never  are?" 

"Oh,  but  I  am,  terribly  rude  and  cruel  and  unkind 
and  forgetful,  and  then  I'm  sorry." 

John  laughed-  In  the  months  since  their  marriage 
he  had  never  heard  a  petulant  word,  it  was  amazing 
to  him,  he  told  her,  how  she  kept  such  serenity. 

Eileen  smiled  and  came  close  to  him.  "It's  because 
I'm  happy  with  you,"  she  said.  "I  used  to  have  an 
awful,  awful  temper.  Aunt  Emma  and  I  quarreled 
all  the  time." 

It  was  not  the  truth,  John  averred.  Aunt  Emma 
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DRIFT 

was  a  nice  person,  a  dear  person,  but  old-fashioned  and 
a  little  exacting  of  course,  old  people  always  were.  How 
could  anyone  quarrel  with  a  person  so  invariably  yield- 
ing and  sweet  as  Eileen?  Her  gentleness  was  one  of 
the  lovely  things  about  her.  That  silver  voice  always 
kept  its  music,  its  lure  of  soft  cadences. 

As  summer  approached  there  was  an  old  country 
house  on  Long  Island  to  be  put  in  order,  taking,  as  before, 
an  infinite  amount  of  planning  and  buying.  Eileen  had 
bought  the  place  because  of  the  garden.  The  former 
owner  had  amused  himself  by  laying  out  an  extensive 
Italian  garden,  richly  planted.  He  had  moved  away  or 
grown  tired  of  his  toy,  and  the  place  from  neglect  had 
a  wild,  overgrown  beauty.  Creepers  had  encroached 
everywhere,  untrimmed,  unhindered.  Exotic  flowers 
struggled  for  supremacy  with  field  daisies,  queen's  lace, 
and  golden  rod,  gravel  paths  were  only  to  be  dis- 
cerned by  guessing  where  they  should  be.  The  foun- 
tain was  a  mass  of  wild  grape-vines  and  the  balustrades 
had  waving  tendrils  of  Virginia  creeper  reaching  out 
as  if  to  clutch  and  hold  a  rare  passer-by.  The  hedges 
were  high  rough  barriers,  forbidding  and  secretive;  al- 
together a  most  romantic  garden. 

The  Scotch  gardener  was  agape  when  he  heard  his  new 
mistress  decree  that  the  garden  was  to  remain  as  it 
was.  "That  mess?"  he  enquired.  "There's  no  sense 
in  that!    A  shocking,  bad,  weedy  place,  I  call  it." 

He  was  so  outraged  that  he  threatened  departure, 
but  Eileen's  persuasions  won  a  grin  from  him  and  he 
Stayed.  Eileen  looked  at  the  garden  and  meditated. 
She  would  have  a  Boccaccio  fete.  Behold  shortly,  high 
awnings  of  the  orange  of  Venetian  sails;  rugs  of  Da- 
mascus; long  tables  with  golden  horns  filled  with  rich- 
coloured  fruit:,  cushions  of  old  Italian  brocade  on  the 
stone  seats.     The  garden  became  the  supposed  scene 

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DEIFT 

above  Florence  during  the  plague.  Story-tellers,  min- 
strels and  strolling  players  appeared,  to  amuse  the 
guests  and  distract  their  anxiety.  Through  one  golden 
summer  afternoon,  beauty  and  joy  held  revelry. 

Eileen  was  full  of  delight  at  the  success  of  her  ef- 
forts. '  *  It  was  a  nice  party,  Wasn  't  it  I ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  'm 
glad  everybody  was  pleased ;  they  said  all  kinds  of  pretty 
things.  Oh,  John,  how  lovely  life  is!  Did  you  have 
a  nice  time  and  were  you  glad?  Hold  me  tight  and 
tell  me  that  you  were.,, 

Eileen  was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been.  If  there 
were  no  moments  of  profound  joy,  she  was  not  acutely 
conscious  of  the  lack.  She  was  free  from  Aunt  Emma, 
— that  was  much,  free  of  all  those  fussy  arguments 
about  everything  she  wanted  to  do.  It  was  heaven  to 
be  indulged  and  petted  as  John  indulged  her.  His  ten- 
derness enwrapped  her  as  in  a  sheltering  garment;  she 
turned  to  him  for  everything  as  simply  and  naturally  as 
a  child. 

As  John  watched  her,  saw  her  absorption  and  pleasure 
in  all  that  was  beautiful,  her  tender,  graceful  ways,  her 
courtesy  for  every  one  around  her,  she  seemed  to  him 
like  a  lovely  child,  looking  out  on  life  with  undimmed, 
expectant  eyes.  His  be  the  task  of  shielding  her  from 
all  that  was  ugly  and  unclean. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  the  year  of  the  municipal  elections.  Evil  threat- 
ened the  great  city.  After  a  period  of  freedom  from 
the  monster,  Greed,  suddenly,  his  leering  head  was  seen 
on  the  horizon.  It  would  be  a  fight  to  keep  him  back 
from  the  citadel.  Like  a  loyal  son,  John  prepared  for 
the  fray.  The  Beast  must  be  slain  before  he  grew  too 
great. 

A  band  of  frve  hundred  citizens  was  formed  under 
the  resounding  name  of  ' '  The  League  for  Political  Free- 
dom/ '  and  doughtily  they  set  forth  to  carry  on  their 
warfare  in  all  sorts  of  evil-smelling,  illy  lighted  halls 
and  public  places,  with  weapons  of  eloquence  and  zeal. 
To  every  far-away  corner  of  the  field  they  sent  their 
emissaries,  caparisoned  and  bright  with  righteousness. 
No  saloon,  no  haunt,  no  union  so  obscure  but  the  League 
must  find  it  out  for  capture. 

John  developed  powers  as  a  stump  speaker.  Aflame 
with  earnestness  he  climbed  up  on  dusty  platforms  to 
face  surliness  and  opposition,  pounding  away  until  he 
won  recognition  for  his  candidate. 

Night  after  night  he  was1  absent  on  this  important 
business.  Eileen  did  not  know  what  had  happened 
to  her.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  a  husband.  John 
played  fast  and  loose  with  engagements,  ate  and  slept 
at  eccentric  hours  and  took  to  bringing  home  to  dinner 
individuals  in  tweeds  who  addressed  her  as  "Ma'am" 

120 


DKIFT 

and  whose  conversation  was  obscure.    She  ardently  de- 
sired to  hear  John  make  a  speech  and  petitioned  to  go. 

John  objected.  "  It's  no  place  for  you,"  he  said. 
"  Too  dirty;  besides,  you'd  shake  my  nerve.' ' 

John  enjoyed  the  fight.  He  was  stifled  with  hot- 
house perfume;  the  male  in  him  rejoiced  in  the  dirty 
halls.  For  some  months  he  had  been  growing  dissat- 
isfied with  everything  around  him.  It  all  seemed  use- 
lessly beautiful,  oppressively  perfect,  too  remote  from 
the  soil  to  be  endured.  He  feared  to  say  it  to  himself, 
but  it  was  true;  he  hated  the  beautiful  house  Eileen 
had  made.  It  represented  for  him  unutterable  weariness 
of  spirit.  He  had  stood  about  smiling  on  so  many  bril- 
liant occasions  that  now,  to  enter  the  drawing-room  was 
to  feel  himself  become  unreal,  a  black-coated  creature 
of  a  golden  world. 

He  told  himself  that  it  was  illogical  to  spend  years 
in  providing  beautiful  surroundings  for  his  work-people 
and  find  the  same  idea  intolerable  when  carried  further, 
yet  so  it  was.  Eileen's  ways  with  money  continued  to 
amaze  him.  What  she  saw  that  attracted  her,  that  she 
bought;  whosoever  touched  her  pity,  to  him  she  gave. 
She  loved  the  beauty  she  created  around  her  with  such 
daintiness  of  passionate  attachment  John  could  not 
find  it  in  his  heart  to  spoil  her  pleasure.  From  the 
day  smiling  Buddha  had  arrived  at  the  Farm,  there 
had  been  an  ascending  scale.  He  found  a  savage  sat- 
isfaction in  pouring  equivalent  amounts  into  the  cof- 
fers of  the  "League  for  Political  Freedom."  If  clean 
gold  could  be  forged  into  a  weapon  to  defeat  the  Beast, 
by  all  means  let  it  be  expended  lavishly,  as  lavishly  as 
on  themselves. 

There  was  no  lack  of  method.  Translators  set  to 
work  and  made  known  in  many  tongues  the  desirability 
of  certain  candidates ;  bright  page  boys  of  the  "League" 
distributed  these  leaflets  from  house  to  house ;  placards, 

121      * 


DRIFT 

posters,  campaign  literature  poured  forth;  the  pictured 
countenances  of  the  candidates  favoured  by  the 
" League' '  were  as  the  sands  of  the  sea  for  multitude; 
every  school  child  in  the  city  as  he  ambled  homeward 
was  presented  with  a  picture  with  excellent  reasons 
underneath  for  voting  for  that  particular  person  and 
above  in  bright  colours,  "Take  home  to  Father.' ' 

The  fight  was  telling.  Under  the  onslaught  the  Beast 
weakened  visibly  and  receded ;  there  was  hope  of  victory. 

One  night  John  was  determined  at  a  committee  meet- 
ing and  went  to  dinner  at  a  chop-house,  talking  ear- 
nestly with  a  fellow-member,  forgetting  a  dinner-party 
at  home.  He  came  in  about  nine  to  find  eleven  laughing 
people  half  way  through  the  meal. 

Eileen  was  as  nearly  cross  as  he  had  ever  seen  her. 
Her  guests  were  important,  she  said.  Thereafter  she 
took  to  telephoning  him  by  day  what  he  was  expected  to 
do  by  night.  John  was  repentant  for  his  lapse  of  man- 
ners and  obedient,  but  he  was  also  occupied  with  other 
things.  He  would  go  only  occasionally  to  the  various 
gayeties  where  Eileen  shone  in  her  own  royal  and  in- 
dolent fashion. 

Finally  election  day  dawned.  There  were  a  few  hours 
of  uncertainty,  and  then  jubilation  in  the  camp  of  the 
"League."  The  Beast  was  slain,  or  at  least  reduced  to 
impotency  for  a  number  of  years. 

John  was  gratified  and  exhausted.  He  purposed, 
he  said,  to  take  ten  baths  one  after  the  other,  give  away 
his  clothes  and  procure  the  best  cigar  there  was  to  be 
found  in  the  world.  This  done,  he  would  resume  charge 
of  the  silk  industry,  which  he  presumed  would  show 
signs  of  neglect. 

Eileen  listened  to  his  eager  talk  and  wished  that  he 
had  let  her  share  in  the  excitement.  Why  must  she  al- 
ways be  set  apart?  She  bought  some  literature  oij 
>qual  suffrage. 

122 


DEIPT 

The  silk  industry  did  indeed  show  signs  that  the 
owner  had  been  absent.  On  his  first  visit  John  wired 
her  not  to  expect  him  at  home  for  a  day  or  so,  as  there 
was  much   demanding  his  attention. 

When  he  came  Eileen  was  very  silent.  She  asked  him 
about  matters  at  the  " Works,' '  listened  absently,  and 
finally  gave  him  an  account  of  a  dinner-dance  she  had 
given  the  night  before,  a  wild  revel  it  had  turned  out  to 
be.  It  appeared  the  guests  had  danced  till  morning. 
"Then  they  wanted  breakfast/'  she  said,  "so  the  serv- 
ants got  coffee  and  rolls,  then  they  danced  some  more, — 
well — then — then  they  went  home."  There  seemed  to  be 
gaps  in  the  narrative.  "It  was  a  little  crazy,"  she 
added,  "I  didn't  have  a  very  good  time.  I  wished  they 
would  go  home — sooner." 

The  recital  had  a  curious  effect  upon  John.  It  crys- 
tallised all  the  smoldering  pain  and  rebellion  into  a 
definite  decision.  All  this  should  end.  Eileen  watched 
him  for  a  moment,  then  came  and  sat  on  his  knee.  "  You 
are  troubled?"  she  said.    "I  hated  it,  you  know  I  did." 

John  held  her  and  tried  to  think  what  to  say.  He 
knew  that  it  was  his  absence  that  had  made  the  frolic 
possible ;  knew  too  that  although  this  particular  evening 
had  not  been  in  accord  with  her  fastidious  taste,  she 
was  a  part  of  the  world  of  pleasure  that  he  found  so 
alien.  If  he  took  her  away  from  it,  how  could  he  make 
her  happy?  He  felt  helpless.  He  had  come  home 
anxious  about  certain  matters  at  the  factory;  doubtless 
he  was  "out  of  sorts,"  to  be  so  little  able  to  understand. 

"I  am  worried,"  he  said.  "There  are  all  sorts  of 
rumors,  the  superintendent  tells  me.  A  number  of  the 
older  men  have  resigned  their  jobs.  I  can't  make  it 
out." 

"Tell  me  about  it."    Eileen  leaned  against  him  and 

her  touch  soothed  the  trouble  in  his  mind;  he  put  it 

away  from  him. 

123 


DRIFT 

"There's  little  to  tell,"  lie  said,  "just  a  word  or  two 
of  discontent.  It  weighs  on  me  out  of  all  proportion. 
Oh  Eileen,  I  love  you.  Tell  me  that  you  love  me,  that 
you  want  me,  very,  very  much.  I  need  you,  oh  so  much. 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you." 

His  stammered  words  made  their  appeal.  He  held  her, 
fiercely,  possessively.  Eileen  stroked  his  forehead, 
soothing  him  by  the  music  of  her  voice,  the  magic  of  her 
delicate  hands. 

Almost  immediately  after  dinner  Eileen  went  up- 
stairs, saying  she  was  very  tired.  She  was  so  often  tired 
that  John  was  troubled.  He  would  creep  up  softly 
later  on,  and  finding  her  asleep  would  feel  reassured. 
Sometimes  he  would  sit  down  beside  the  bed  and  watch 
her,  yearning  over  the  delicate  creature  he  had  in  his 
keeping,  wishing  he  could  do  more  for  her,  care  for  her 
better. 

On  this  occasion  he  came  upstairs  about  eleven,  but 
was  too  restless  to  go  to  bed.  Eeturning  to  the  library, 
he  lighted  a  cigar  and  sat  down  to  think  it  out.  He  was 
profoundly  dissatisfied  with  their  life;  it  was  too  full 
of  other  things,  other  people.  He  had  drugged  himself 
for  a  little  with  the  interest  of  the  campaign,  but  now 
the  situation  must  be  faced.  He  wanted  Eileen  with 
him  more  and  the  world  was  winning  her  away.  With 
insatiable  greed,  it  closed  around  her,  taking  all  her 
sweetness  to  itself. 

He  thought  of  her  lying  asleep  upstairs  with  a  great 
longing  to  go  and  tell  her  of  his  thoughts,  to  talk  all 
these  things  over  with  her  as  he  had  tried  to  do  in  the 
afternoon.  Perhaps  together  they  might  find  a  so- 
lution; she  was  always  eager  to  accede  to  any  proposal 
that  he  made.  He  rose  to  go  but  stopped.  She  had  said 
she  was  tired,  he  hesitated  to  waken  her.  He  went  in 
search  of  his  violin,  and  shutting  the  doors  began  to 
play. 

124 


DRIFT 

Many  times  during  the  two  years  of  his  marriage  he 
had  poured  out  to  his  violin  what  he  could  not  say. 
Tonight  he  played  with  a  curious  passion  that  held 
in  it  the  hopelessness  of  one  who  knows  but  will  not  see. 

Suddenly  Eileen  came.  She  stood  in  the  doorway,  a 
fur  coat  over  her  nightdress.  "I  woke  up  and  you 
weren't  there,"  she  said,  ''and  I  was  frightened.  I 
heard  the  violin,  it  sounded  so  sad,  coming  through 
the  night !    Oh  John,  what  is  it  ? ' ' 

He  looked  at  her,  wondering  whether  to  try  and  tell 
her  what  he  had  been  thinking.  She  seemed  so  young, 
so  appealing,  standing  there  with  her  cloak  around 
her,  that  he  could  not  speak.  Her  troubled  sweetness 
drove  away  his  fear.    He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"I  think  I  was  calling  to  you,"  he  said. 

Not  long  afterwards  John  found  her  in  her  room, 
crying  bitterly.  She  would  not  tell  him  at  first  what  was 
in  her  mind.  Finally  in  broken  words  it  came ;  she  was 
afraid  she  was  going  to  have  a  child. 

1  'Afraid!  Oh  my  beloved,  my  beloved!"  John  cried. 
"Don't  feel  so !    If  it  is  true,  it  will  be  all  right." 

A  few  weeks  later  she  told  him  that  she  had  been 
mistaken.  "  I  am  so  thankful,  so  profoundly  thankful ! ' ' 
she  said. 

John  looked  at  her.  He  could  not  speak,  could  not 
believe  that  she  had  meant  what  she  had  said.  He  went 
to  his  rooms  to  be  alone,  to  think  it  out.  How  strange 
that  she  should  feel  like  that!  What  was  the  reason? 
During  the  weeks  that  followed  he  longed  to  find  out 
What  was  the  cause  of  her  fear,  but  she  would  not,  or 
could  not  explain.  "Sometime  ahead,  in  a  few  years," 
she  pleaded,  "not  now,  oh  not  now!"  She  seemed  so 
distressed  that  John  was  silent.  He  could  say  nothing. 
He  was  greatly  troubled. 


125 


CHAPTER  XIVj 

A  STRIKE  was  threatened  at  the  factory.  John  was 
dismayed.  In  all  the  years  of  his  own  and  his 
father's  management  there  had  been  no  strike. 

He  had  had  up  to  now  the  satisfaction  of  knowing, 
or  believing  at  least,  that  his  work-people  were  content. 
[Well  housed,  well  paid,  with  every  device  that  he  could 
think  of  for  their  well-being  added,  he  was  doing  all 
that  he  could  do,  all  that  he  felt  could  be  done  until 
changed  conditions  made  more  radical  reforms  possible. 

His  policy  had  been  that  all  reasonable  requests  be 
granted.  The  few  malcontents  who  had  appeared  from 
time  to  time  had  found  their  positions  too  much  desired 
to  be  able  to  use  the  threat  of  departure.  Had  the 
entire  force  marched  out,  their  places  could  have  been 
filled  next  day.  Unions  there  were  in  number  and 
occasionally  it  had  taken  argument  to  effect  an  amica- 
ble setti.oment.  Since  the  improved  conditions  brought 
about  by  the  building  of  the  village,  there  had  seemed 
entire  contert.  The  telegram  had  been  a  profound  sur- 
prise. "  Plans  for  a  strike  maturing  rapidly,' '  it  read. 
"Please  come  at  once.  Suggest  calling  directors '  meet- 
ing by  wire,  for  tomorrow  if  possible.  The  demand  is  a 
flat  fifteen  per  cent,  raise  for  all  operatives.  Am  told 
trouble  has  been  brewing  for  some  months.  Chairman 
of  committee,  man  named  Alfred  Brent.  Says  the  presi- 
dent of  federated  unions  would  not  consent  to  the  strike, 

126 


DEIFT 

earlier,  but  now  insists  it  be  called.   Wire  me  your  train 
so  can  arrange  for  conference  with  Brent." 

John  found  it  hard  to  bear.  All  the  way  up  in  the 
train  he  sat  aloof,  chewing  the  cud  of  his  bitterness. 
It  was  intolerable  to  him,  after  the  years  of  study  and 
thought  and  love  he  had  given,  that  his  employees,  with- 
out a  word  of  warning,  without  proffering  a  request, 
had  announced  a  strike.  Had  he  not  shown  that  he 
would  grant  every  reasonable  demand ;  had  he  not  given 
them  everything  possible  for  their  welfare,  their  happi- 
ness? Now,  just  as  though  he  were  an  employer  who 
had  been  trying  to  get  the  best  of  them,  to  exploit 
their  labour,  they  had  turned  to  rend  him,  showing  their 
teeth  in  a  snarl  of  hatred.  He  was  filled  with  a  kind 
of  sickness,  a  rage  against  them  for  their  act.  He  would 
fight,  he  resolved,  fight  them  to  the  end;  they  thought 
him  weak  because  he  had  tried  to  be  their  friend,  be- 
cause, fool  that  he  was,  he  had  believed  that  if  he  did 
his  part  they  would  do  theirs,  [Well,  they  would  see; 
he  would  use  their  weapon;  he  would  refuse  their  " de- 
mand.' ■  Let  them  go  forth  and  find  other  employ- 
ment, they  would  soon  see  how  difficult  it  wa3 ;  let  them 
discover  what  their  lot  would  be  in  other  places.  He 
knew  conditions  of  other  factories;  they  did  not,  but 
they  would  soon  find  out.  He  would  close  down  the 
works,  if  necessary,  if  the  strike  were  general,  before  he 
would  yield.  They  would  come  back  in  a  few  months, 
humbled,  begging  for  work ;  they  would  appreciate  then, 
perhaps,  what  he  had  done  for  them.  So  it  was  his 
mind  formulated  methods  of  doing  what  he  planned. 

He  sat  thus  for  perhaps  an  hour,  his  arms  folded, 
his  head  bent,  oblivious  to  everything  that  went  on 
around  him.  In  that  hour  John  Templeton  tasted  the 
very  dregs  of  defeat,  knew  the  fury  of  baffled  purpose, 
the  hatred  and  despair  of  the  man  who  is  wounded  by  his 
fellows  and  wants  to  kill  in  return. 

127 


DEIFT 

Perhaps  he  slept,  he  did  not  know,  but  slowly  there 
penetrated  through  the  mist  of  pain  a  curious  feeling. 
It  was  as  if  his  spirit  lifted  itself  from  his  body,  sitting 
there  in  the  train  with  bowed  head,  and  regarded  him 
with  searching  eyes.  He  saw  himself,  saw  all  that  he 
had  been  thinking,  saw  it  bleak  and  stark,  horrible  to 
look  upon — he  hated  his  men,  he  wanted  them  to  suffer, 
wanted  their  wives  and  children  to  suffer,  if,  by  such 
means,  they  would  come  to  recognise  what  he  had  done 
for  them.  A  great  horror  swept  over  him;  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  appalled  at  his  thoughts.  Was 
he  then  a  hypocrite,  even  to  himself?  Had  he  been 
merely  plotting  to  control  these  people  who  worked  for 
him, — giving  them,  unsolicited,  comfort  and  beauty  in 
addition  to  their  just  wages,  in  order  to  lull  them  into 
acquiescence?  "Was  this  the  real  motive  underlying  the 
village?  Never  before  had  he  felt  such  bitter  doubt; 
doubt  of  himself,  of  the  men,  of  all  things.  All  his 
work  seemed  valueless  and  insincere.  Never  before  had 
he  questioned  the  desirability  of  what  he  was  trying  to 
do.  He  considered  it  all  that  could  be  don.  Now, 
doubts  came  crowding  in  upon  him,  overwhelming  him ; 
all  that  he  had  taken  pride  in  became  as  dead  sea  fruit. 
He  was  not  sure  of  his  own  integrity  of  purpose. 

He  recalled  an  old  copy-book  maxim  he  had  written 
as  a  child,  " Assume  a  virtue  if  you  have  it  not."  He 
could  see  the  page,  the  lines  growing  worse  and  worse, 
straggling  down.  He  laughed  grimly.  He  would  keep 
the  thought  of  " closing  down"  under;  no  one  should 
know  what  he  had  planned;  no  one  should  ever  know; 
he  would  treat  the  men  in  the  same  manner  in  which 
he  had  always  treated  them,  assuming  that  their  claim 
was  just  or  they  would  not  have  made  it. 

By  the  end  of  the  journey  he  had  resolved  upon  his 
course.  He  would  test  himself.  He  would  hold  to  his 
faith  in  the  men;  he  would  hold  to  his  faith  in  his 

128 


DRIFT 

methods  of  dealing  with  them.  At  that  hour,  nothing 
seemed  of  importance  but  this  one  thing.  Let  them  have 
what  they  wanted,  economic  or  uneconomic,  if  by  so 
doing  he  could  find  out  whether  one  employer  was 
honestly  trying  to  solve  the  question,  or  merely  trying 
to  obtain  more  complete  dominion.  He  recalled  the 
thoughts  that  had  possessed  him,-^-they  were  exorcised, 
but  the  doubt  remained. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  superintendent  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  sta- 
tion. He  was  a  short,  stocky,  out  spoken  man,  named 
Fred  Morris. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "Things  are 
looking  a  bit  better  tonight;  I  just  heard  that  Wilkes 
has  called  a  meeting  of  the  foremen,  who  were  the  last 
to  consent  to  the  strike.  He's  hoping  to  influence  them 
to  remain  loyal,  but  hasn't  the  tongue  Brent  has.  I 
am  very  sorry  this  has  occurred,  sir,  I  hope  you  under- 
stand that?" 

"Look  here,  Morris,"  said  John  when  they  were  in 
the  cab,  "I  want  your  straight  opinion.  Why  are  the 
men  doing  this?  What  is  their  real  grievance?  What 
justice  is  there  in  their  demand?" 

"Justice I"  echoed  Morris,  "justice!  They're  damn 
scoundrels,  that's  the  justice." 

"Hold  on,"  said  John,  "I  asked  you  a  question.  I 
should  like  it  answered.  The  men  know  I've  listened  to 
every  complaint,  adjusted  every  difficulty  up  to  now, 
why  do  they  threaten?  They  must  have  a  reason  to 
doit." 

"Are  you  going  to  talk  to  the  men  that  way  ?  Morris 
enquired. 

"Certainly,"  John's  voice  was  stern,  "I  shall  let 
them  see  they  have  my  confidence." 

Morris  turned  to  stare  at  him.  "You  pay  union 
130 


DRIFT 

wages  and  hand  them  out  a  parcel  of  premiums  besides/' 
he  said,  "it's  beyond  me  what  they  want." 

"You  have  been  superintendent  here  one  year,  I 
think?"  said  John. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"It  seems  not  to  have  been  sufficient  time  for  you  to 
grasp  the  principle  upon  which  this  business  is  run." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Fair  play,"  said  John.  "I  suppose  you  would  call  it 
romantic  idealism,  the  name  doesn't  matter;  what  does 
matter  is  that  it  is  a  principle  here,  on  both  sides.  I 
refuse  to  have  it  disturbed  by  incidental  difficulties." 

"Spoken  like  an  aristocrat,  as  Brent  would  say." 
Morris  gave  a  short  laugh. 

It  was  John's  turn  to  glance  at  the  man  beside  him  as 
Morris  went  on  speaking.  "I  think  I  understand  what 
fair  play  means.  I  go  on  that  principle  myself  and  I 
don't  call  it  *  romantic  idealism'  either.  They're  two 
quite  distinct  things,  to  my  way  of  thinking." 

"But  you  think  they  are  confused  in  mine?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  do." 

John  was  attracted  by  the  other's  bluntness.  "I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  seem  not  to  be  practising 
either  at  the  present  moment." 

"I  guess  the  strike's  getting  on  all  our  nerves,"  was 
Morris's  answer. 

"The  strike  isn't  a  fact  yet,  remember."  As  he 
spoke  John  determined  that  it  should  not  be.  His  short 
conversation  with  his  superintendent  had  shown  him, 
he  thought,  where  one  of  the  difficulties  lay. 

"No,  not  yet,"  Morris  admitted,  "but  it  will  be  by 
this  time  tomorrow.  They're  not  going  to  yield,  the 
thing's  been  stewing  too  long.    Maybe  you  intend  to?" 

He  looked  curiously  at  his  employer.  He  had  always 
thought  John  a  romantic  idealist,  but  it  was  disconcert- 
ing to  him  to  find  that  John  knew  that  he  was.     If 

131 


DRIFT 

he  had  adopted  his  crazy  creed  as  a  working  basis  and 
meant  to  stick  to  it  through  thick  and  thin,  if  he  pur- 
posed and  planned  and  intended  to  be  a  "romantic 
idealist, ' '  how  in  thunder  was  he,  Morris,  to  get  on  with 
him? 

The  chairman  of  the  committee  representing  the 
strikers  was  one  Albert  Brent,  an  intelligent  man  who 
had  been  at  the  factory  only  two  years.  Morris  credited 
him  with  being  the  instigator  of  all  the  trouble.  Brent 
was  markedly  a  leader.  He  had  been  foreman  of  a 
division  for  about  six  months  and  had  recently  enquired 
how  soon  he  might  look  for  further  advancement.  It 
was  only  in  the  last  few  months  that  rumours  of  trouble 
had  been  circulating. 

Morris  had  suggested  that  they  send  for  Brent  and 
have  a  talk  with  him  unofficially  before  the  meeting 
with  the  committee. 

Brent  came,  shook  John's  hand  with  every  evidence 
of  good  will,  and  took  the  chair  offered  to  him. 

"Well,  Mr.  Brent,' '  said  John,  "I  came  up  here  on 
Mr.  Morris's  summons  to  look  into  the  causes  that  make 
you  think  it  justifiable  to  ask  for  higher  wages,  you  and 
the  men  behind  you.    Please  state  your  case." 

"We  think  our  labour  is  worth  more,"  said  Brent, 
"that  it  should  have  a  larger  share  of  the  profits.  This 
is  a  big  business." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "it  is.  I  know  that  quite  well. 
You  have  union  wages." 

"And  we  think  union  wages  aren't  high  enough. 
That  they  are  union  doesn't  mean  anything,  except  that 
we  haven't  been  at  it  long  enough  to  get  higher.  Mr. 
Scanlon,  the  head  of  the  union,  has  authorised  this 
strike.  If  we  can  get  higher  wages,  it  will  mean  all 
the  other  factories  will  have  to  go  up." 

"I  suppose  you  know  we  can  get  other  operatives?" 
Morris  put  in. 

132 


DRIFT 

"You  certainly  can,"  Brent  replied,  "all  you  want, 
tomorrow,  and  you  can  begin  and  teach  'em  how  to 
weave  silk,  every  one  of  'em.  You  won't  get  a  single 
union  man;  we've  attended  to  that." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  John  slowly.  "My  people 
have  been  with  me  a  long  time,  most  of  them,  far  longer 
than  you  have.  They  have  become  skilled  workers.  You 
think  that  you  can  incite  them  to  demand  more  than 
union  wages?"  The  bitterness  rose  in  his  breast;  it 
seemed  that  "his  people"  had  been  too  ready  to  be  led. 

"Not  can  do  it,  have  done  it,"  said  Brent.  "I've 
made  no  secret  of  it.  Somebody  has  to  wake  'em  up; 
show  'em  what  they  can  do,  what  they  are  worth." 

"Well,"  said  John,  "I've  often  thought  your  labour 
was  worth  more." 

Morris  stared  and  Brent  laughed.  "What  am  I  to 
conclude  from  that  last  remark?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing  as  yet,"  John  said.  "There  will  be  a 
directors'  meeting  this  afternoon.  I  was  merely  stating 
what  I  had  often  thought.  I  wish  to  be  quite  frank,  as 
you  are.  It's  the  only  basis  for  a  clear  understanding, 
isn't  it,  to  state  exactly  what  one  thinks?" 

Brent  bowed  and  waited.  He  showed  that  he  was  a 
little  nonplussed.  Finally  he  said,  "Well,  I'll  be  frank 
too,  Mr.  Templeton.  This  strike,  even  if  we  win,— well, 
— it  won't  be  the  last  one.    I  suppose  you  know  that." 

"Quite  well,"  said  John  and  his  voice  was  very  clear, 
"and  I  dare  say  numbers  of  you  are  beginning  to  think 
we  should  change  places, — you  employ  me,  I  mean. 
Isn't  that  so?" 

"Maybe  there's  a  few,"  said  Brent,  "but  I'm  not  one 
of  'em.  I  hope  you  understand  that.  I  don't  want  you 
to  think  I'm  working  for  those  fellows.  I  can  see  where 
this  business  needs  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  John. 

Brent  looked  around  the  room.     "I  didn't  put  it 

133 


DRIFT 

right,  Mr.  Templeton, ' '  he  said  with  an  awkward  laugh, 
"I  mean,  well,  I  see  it  like  this;  it's  fool  talk,— this 
stuff  about  getting  control  in  the  end.  There  ain't  one 
of  us  but  what  would  jump  at  the  chance,  if  we  ever 
got  it,  to  go  up  as  high  as  we  could.  Then  we'd  be 
talkin'  from  the  other  side.  No,  I  don't  hold  with  those 
notions,  but  I'll  fight  for  the  biggest  share  of  the  profits 
I  can  get." 

"Do  you  know  what  the  profits  are?"  John  asked. 

"Last  few  years,  round  about  twelve  per  cent,  net," 
said  Brent. 

"How  did  you  figure  it  out?"  John  was  curious  to 
know.  On  account  of  the  amounts  spent  on  the  building 
of  Templeton,  the  books  were  inaccessible.  He  was 
willing  to  have  his  business  known,  but  not  how  much 
he  had  "put  back." 

Brent  was  beginning  to  speak  when  Morris  broke  in. 
He  had  been  muttering  for  some  time.  "Do  you  know 
how  much  Mr.  Templeton  takes  for  himself?"  he  de- 
manded, "for  if  you  don't,  I'll  tell  you.  It's  less  than 
three  per  cent.,  do  you  hear,  less  than  three  per  cent., 
and  some  years  it  hasn't  been  one  per  cent." 

John  put  in  an  exclamation,  but  Morris  was  not  to  be 
stopped.  "All  the  rest  has  gone  back,  every  cent,  I've 
been  over  the  books  and  I  know, — at's  gone  into  your 
homes  and  all  the  rest  of  it  that  you've  got  here,  and 
now  you  come  squealing  you  want  'more  wages'!  It 
makes  me  sick." 

Brent  looked  at  him  quietly.  "Why  don't  you  be  as 
honest  as  Mr.  Templeton?"  he  asked,  with  a  queer  smile. 
"I  didn't  know  just  how  much  it  had  taken  to  build 
'Templeton.'  It's  a  pretty  town  and  costly.  It's  very 
kind  of  course,  very  kind  indeed  to  give  it  to  the  men 
and  their  families;  I'm  not  saying  it  doesn't  make  'em 
happy,  most  of  'em,  but  you  see,  some  of  us  think  it 
doesn't  cut  any  figure.    Mr.  Templeton  would  tell  you 

134 


DRIFT 

he  got1  a  lot  of  pleasure  building  this  'village'  that's 
named  after  him,  an'  plantin'  the  vines  and  all.  He 
likes  it  to  be  pretty  so's  to  be  a  credit  to  him;  he  gets 
more  pleasure,  every  time  he  sees  the  happy,  shinin' 
faces  of  'his  people/  as  he  calls  'em,  greetin'  him  when 
he  comes." 

Morris  started  to  speak  but  John  held  up  his  hand. 
"My  turn  now,"  he  said.  "You're  quite  right,  Mr. 
Brent.  I  have  enjoyed  it,  enjoyed  it  immensely.  It 
isn't  an  illegitimate  pleasure,  I  think,  to  enjoy  making 
a  large  number  of  people  comfortable,  instead  of 
wretched." 

"Of  course  it  isn't,"  Brent  yielded  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  "but  it  doesn't  do  any  good, — doesn't  get  any- 
where. Mr.  Templeton,  you  don't  get  on  to  us;  you're 
generous,  no  end;  you're  a  good  man, — I  like  you.  I'll 
allow  our  conditions  are  better  'n  anywhere  else  in  the 
country,  but  we  don't  want  'em  given  to  us;  we  want 
to  bargain  and  struggle  and  trade  for  'em,  just  as  you 
do.  We  want  to  sell  our  labour  high  enough  to  get  all 
this  for  ourselves  when  we  want  it,  or  put  our  extra 
money  in  the  bank  if  we  don't  want  it.  We  have  to  have 
our  vines  here,  even  if  we  don't  like  vines,  an'  we  have 
to  be  clean  and  neat  an'  sanitary,  even  if  all  of  us  don't 
want  to  be.  Why,  Mr.  Templeton,  Mr.  Morris  here  under- 
stands us  better 'n  you  do,  though  he  did  try  on  a  bluff 
just  now.  He'd  give  us  less  and  treat  us  worse  and  bully 
us  if  he  could,  but  he'd  trade  with  us  and  beat  us 
down  and  then  he  wouldn't  have  no  grievance  if  we 
didn't  feel  gratitude.  Excuse  me  for  speakin'  out  blunt, 
Mr.  Templeton,  that's  the  way  I  am.  I  like  you,  as  I 
told  you  before,  but  you're  so  damn  kind  it  makes  you 
hard  to  deal  with." 

All  three  men  laughed.    "Go  on,"  said  John. 

"Well,  I  guess  I've  'stated  the  case,'  haven't  I? 
That's  what  you  asked  me  to  do.    I've  tried  to  show  you 

135 


DRIFT 

the  truth  about  the  'working  man.'  I  guess  it  ain't  all 
new  to  you,  is  it?  Why  this  business  of  'improving  the 
conditions  of  the  working  man'  is  about  the  biggest 
luxury  we  have;  you  mustn't  take  it  away  from  us.  It 
gives  us  a  'cause'  and  a  religion;  God  knows,  maybe 
sometime  it'll  give  us  a  political  creed,  there's  some  of 
us  think  so.  We're  bound  to  show  you  we're  worth  our 
window  boxes,  an'  not  go  on  havin'  'em  thrust  on  us 
some  places  and  left  off  in  others,  according  to  whether 
the  owner  of  the  works  likes  flowers. ' ' 

"As  you  say,  the  ideas  you  present  are  not  new  to 
me,"  said  John,  "but  you  will  appreciate  that  it  is 
extremely  difficult  to  avoid  creating  this  feeling  while 
instituting  improvements  that  one  believes  desirable. 
Shall  we  talk  matters  over  again  tomorrow?" 

The  three  men  separated,  and  Morris  went  to  the 
window  and  strummed  before  turning  to  look  at  his 
employer.  His  expression  indicated  that  he  had  nothing 
further  to  say. 

The  meeting  of  the  board  of  directors  was  a  peculiar 
one.  It  consisted  in  a  picturesque  re-telling  by  John 
of  Brent 's  .remarks.  All  the  sarcasm  of  his  soul  had 
free  play. 

"I've  wished  before  now,"  he  ended,  "that  I  was  one 
of  the  operatives.  It's  simpler,  or  was,  until  Brent  came 
along." 

The  directors  were  kindly  men,  several  of  them 
minority  stockholders.  They  were  an  inheritance  from 
the  days  of  the  elder  John  Templeton.  For  the  most 
part  they  agreed  with  John's  schemes,  received  their 
dividends  and  were  content.  One,  a  Mr.  White,  eighty 
years  of  age,  always  expostulated  sardonically  before 
yielding.  Nothing  seemed  to  him  of  great  importance. 
He  had  seen  each  generation  making  the  same  earnest 
struggle,  repeating  the  same  follies;  he  supposed  they 


DEIFT 

would  go  on  doing  it,  but  what  did  it  matter  really, 
in  the  end? 

He  perceived,  as  did  the  others,  what  John  intended 
to  do.  Soon  they  would  solemnly  proceed  to  make  mo- 
tions and  give  the  plan  back  in  due  form  as  their  counsel. 

"But  won't  yielding  in  this  grand  manner/ '  said  Mr. 
White,  "be  but  another  evidence  of  your  'damn  kind- 
ness'?   How  are  you  going  to  get  around  that?" 

John  laughed.  "We'll  begin  the  agreement — 'Recog- 
nising the  justice'."    Evidently  he  had  his  plans  laid. 

The  matter  of  the  strike  disposed  of,  he  propounded 
another,  namely,  a  plan  of  putting  the  business  on  a 
profit-sharing  basis.  He  had  been  studying  the  matter 
for  some  time,  he  told  them.  There  would  undoubtedly 
"be  another  strike  very  soon,  or  threat.  Brent  could,  of 
course,  be  dismissed,  but  he  rather  thought  that  he, 
John,  needed  him.  Brent  spoke  the  truth ;  the  truth  was 
always  interesting  to  hear.  Before  another  effort  at 
higher  wages  could  be  made,  he  would  like  to  make  a 
proposition  to  all  of  the  employees  in  regard  to  putting 
the  business  on  a  strictly  profit-sharing  basis,  with  all 
that  that  plan  implied.  Possibly  it  would  be  better,  in- 
stead of  granting  their  demand  of  a  fifteen  per  cent, 
raise,  to  set  before  them  this  new  plan  as  a  counter 
proposition,  provided  the  directors  were  all  agreed  that 
was  the  next  step.  He  would  like  a  frank  statement 
from  each  one  of  them,  as  to  their  opinion. 

Mr.  White  shook  his  aged  head.  "All  very  well,  all 
very  well,"  he  said,  "until  the  lean  years  come,  as  come 
they  may.  Then  you'll  suffer,  but  you'll  go  on  paying 
out  your  'minimum  wage'  just  the  same.  You'll  be  too 
'damn  kind'  to  shut  down," — the  phrase  seemed  to  have 
curdled  his  compassion— " all  that's  been  done  won't 
count  then,  either,  any  more  than  it  does  now,  when 
they  chatter  about  being  'worth  their  window  boxes'! 
Arrogant  fools !    They  are  fools,  I  tell  you,  to  let  a  man 

137 


DRIFT 

like  that  demagogue  Brent  pull  'em  about  by  the  nose, 
make  them  quarrel  with  their  bread  and  butter, — and 
then  he  talks  you  into  proposing  profit-sharing, — now, 
at  this  late  day,  after  all  you've  done !  Why  didn't  you 
propose  that  before  you  built  Templeton?" 

"  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better,"  said  John. 
"The  town  was  my  father's  plan,  you  know.  I  wanted 
to  fulfil  his  wish,  but  the  times  seemed  to  have  changed 
while  I  was  absorbed  in  its  building.' ' 

"Humph!"  said  the  venerable  Mr.  White,  rising, 
"changed  for  the  worse,  much  for  the  worse!" 

The  meeting  broke  up.  The  board  of  directors  had 
signified  its  approval  of  the  plan  proposed  by  the  chair- 
man. Mr.  White  shook  hands  with  his  fellow-directors 
and  departed,  leaning  heavily  on  his  cane  and  muttering 
"too  damn  kind."  That  evening  he  told  his  wife  he 
had  lived  too  long.  "The  human  race  is  degenerating," 
he  said,  "in  my  day,  work-people  had  some  decent 
feeling;  now  they  are  all  fools  or  'labour  leaders.'  I 
don't  know  which  are  the  worst." 

John  found  the  superintendent  waiting  for  him  in  the 
outer  onice  and  communicated  to  him  the  views  of  the 
board  of  directors,  including  those  of  Mr.  White. 

"Fine  old  man,  Mr.  White,"  said  Morris. 

"Yes,  you  agree  excellently,"  observed  John. 
"Morris,  do  you  think  Brent  is  honest?" 

Morris  waited  a  moment  before  answering.  ' '  I  rather 
think  so,"  he  spoke  slowly.  "But  did  you  take  in  the 
significance  of  what  he  said  about  getting  as  high  up  as 
he  could  go?" 

"What?"  John  turned  sharply.  "You  don't  mean 
to  say — " 

"Yes,  I  do  mean  to  say,"  said  Morris.  "The  fellow's 
arrogance  has  no  bounds.  He  knows  he's  getting  a  cer- 
tain power  over  the  men;  he's  glib  enough,  and  he 

thinks  you're  easy." 

238 


DRIFT 

John  threw  back  his  head  with  a  queer  laugh.  "Well, 
of  all  the  damned  impudence!  Surely  you're  wrong, 
Morris,  it's  inconceivable,  it's  ludicrous;  besides  he 
wouldn't  have  permitted  himself  all  those  sneers  after- 
wards, wouldn't  have  betrayed  himself.  You're  out  of 
your  mind." 

"Maybe,"  Morris  nodded  his  head  sagely.  "Just  the 
same,  there's  some  idea  working  inside  that  fellow's 
bullet  head.  He's  shrewd  and  sharp  as  sin.  He's  out 
for  Alfred  Brent  and  nobody  else  on  earth.  He's  gotten 
a  hold  here.    I  can 't  make  it  out. ' ' 

"Morris,"  said  John,  "do  you  think  I'm  'easy'?" 

"I  think  you  are  a  romantic  idealist,"  said  Morris 
with  a  grin. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  two  men  walked  together  across  the  small  park 
that  lay  in  front  of  the  administration  building. 
The  wind  was  sharp  and  flying  snowflakes  stung  their 
faces. 

As  John'  opened  the  door  of  his  rooms  they  looked 
pleasant  and  cheerful.  An  open  fire  crackled,  the  lamp 
had  been  lighted,  and  the  evening  paper  laid  near  the 
easy  chair.  They  were  comfortable  rooms,  almost 
shabby;  not  beautiful  at  all,  but  everything  had  been 
just  as  it  was  for  a  long  time  and  fitte4  him. 

Morris  stopped  in  the  doorway  with  a  word  of  "thanks 
at  John's  gesture  of  invitation.  "I'd  like  to  know  what 
you're  going  to  do  about  Brent,"  he  said,  "keep  him 
on,  I  suppose." 

* '  Of  course.  Do  you  suppose  I  'm  afraid  of  the  man  ? ' ' 
John  threw  off  his  coat;  it  was  good  to  get  in.  "You 
say  he's  honest.  "Well  then,  we  can  deal  with  him,  or 
you  can,  he  amuses  me  too  much — I  'd  show  it  and  offend 
him." 

Morris  did  not  laugh.  He  found  his  employer  diffi- 
cult. Moreover,  he  abhorred  Brent  and  all  his  ways. 
"What  are  your  instructions,  sir?  There's  a  committee 
meeting  going  on  now;  it  will  be  necessary  to  make  a 
definite  reply  very  shortly." 

"I'll  tell  you  in  the  morning,"  said  John.  "Good- 
night." 

140 


DKIFT 

Left  alone  he  walked  slowly  to  the  fire,  poked  it  un- 
necessarily and  viciously  and  stood  swinging  the  poker 
and  staring  into  the  leaping  flames. 

He  had  left  the  directors'  meeting  with  a  conscious- 
ness that  the  six  older  men  had  for  him  something  of 
the  same  feeling  that  Morris  entertained.  They  yielded 
to  his  vagaries  because  they  liked  him  and  because  he 
owned  the  majority  of  the  stock,  but  they  thought  him 
a  dreamer.  Well,  a  dreamer  he  would  remain.  In 
spite  of  the  strike,  in  spite  of  all  that  Brent  had  said, 
he  could  not  keep  down  his  faith  that  his  methods  of 
dealing  with  his  work-people  would  win,  must  win,  in 
the  end.  They  were  children,  fiery  children,  discon- 
tented for  the  moment,  but  bidable.  He  would  give 
them  what  they  asked  now,  give  it  to  them  without 
further  discussion,  and  shortly  afterwards,  more, — a 
direct  share — to  show  them  his  faith  that  their  trust  in 
him  was  unimpaired.    He  would  not  admit  his  hurt. 

As  he  sat  thinking  it  over,  it  came  to  him  that  he 
would  try  to  find  out  the  trend  of  feeling  from  some  of 
the  operatives.  H(e  would  not  believe  that  the  sentiments 
Brent  had  expressed  were  general.  He  wondered  that 
he  had  not  thought  of  this  before;  perhaps  he  had  ac- 
cepted the  threat  of  the  strike  too  quickly;  perhaps 
Brent  spoke  with  more  confidence  than  he  was  entitled 
to  use ;  perhaps  he  had  won  a  temporary  supremacy 
which  did  not  really  express  the  opinions  of  the  men. 

"I  will  go  into  the  seventh  house  on  the  seventh 
street,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  find  out  what  that  man 
thinks."  Smiling  at  the  absurdity  he  went  out.  It 
would  be  something  to  do  at  any  rate  while  he  was  trying 
to  come  to  a  decision. 

The  storm  had  risen.  Everything  was  covered  with 
snow.  John  had  a  feeling  of  impatience  that  the  burden 
on  his  mind  would  not  let  him  appreciate  the  beauty; 
of  the  winter  scene. 

14U 


DRIFT 

He  found  his  seventh  house;  a  woman  with  a  baby 
in  her  arms  opened  the  door. 

"S  your  husband  at  home?"  John  stood  bareheaded 
and  bowed  as  the  woman,  evidently  surprised,  pro- 
nounced his  name.    "I'd  like  to  see  him  if  he  is." 

The  woman  glanced  at  the  clock  behind  her,  "He 
will  be  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  "he's  at  the  gymnasium. 
Will  you  come  in  f " 

" Thank  you."  John  stepped  into  the  sitting-room, 
where  the  woman  turned  on  the  light. 

"You're  wondering  why  I  came,"  he  said.  "Ill  tell 
you.  I've  been  trying  to  run  New  York  politics  for  a 
bit  and  neglecting  my  own  business.  I'd  like  to  talk 
to  your  husband  about  the  strike  if  he's  willing.  Will 
you  tell  me  your  name?" 

"My  name  is  Vails,  Mrs.  Frank  Vails,"  said  the 
woman.     "Is  the  strike  really  coming  off?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John.  "It  will  be  decided  to- 
morrow. Now  please  just  let  me  sit  here  and  wait.  I 
won't  interrupt  what  you  are  doing."  He  bowed  and 
Mrs.  Vails  with  one  hand  poked  up  the  fire  in  the  open 
stove  and  went  out  slowly,  saying  as  she  went,  "I'm 
sure  he  '11  be  here  soon. ' ' 

In  a  moment  a  word  of  greeting,  accompanied  by  the 
opening  of  the  front  door,  announced  the  return  of 
Frank  Vails.  He  stopped  suddenly  on  seeing  some- 
one there  and  took  off  his  hat. 

John  announced  his  errand.  "I'd  like  a  few  questions 
answered  if  you  are  willing,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  get 
at  the  bottom  of  this  strike  business  if  I  can." 

Vails    looked    uncomfortable    and    a    little    defiant. 

"Would  you  tell  me  why  you  came  here?"  he  asked. 

John  laughed.  "For  no  reason,"  he  said,  "you're 
number  seven.  Don't  you  remember  the  old  fairy 
stories?  There  was  something  significant  about  the 
number  seven,  that's  the  only  reason,  a  ridiculous  one 

142 


DRIFT 

of  course.  But  now  I  am  here,  are  you  willing  to  answer 
a  few  questions?  If  not  I  can  go  next  door."  John 
had  a  feeling  this  man  too  would  think  him  fantastic, 
well — all  right — let  him! 

Vails  was  bewildered  and  suspicious,  also  extremely 
uncomfortable.  "Will  you  have  a  chair ?"  he  asked, 
pulling  one  out.  "I  guess  I  can  answer  anything  you 
want  to  ask  me." 

Both  men  sat  down.  "Will  you  tell  me  what  de- 
partment you  are  in?"  said  John. 

"Weaver  in  velvet." 

"And  will  you  tell  me  how  long  you  have  been  at 
work? — here  at  Templeton,  I  mean." 

"Eight  years." 

"Through  the  last  few  years  of  the  reconstruction, 
then?    That  was  a  wearing  time  on  everybody?" 

"It  was  worth  it,  I  guess;  it's  all  right  now."  The 
words  were  grudgingly  said,  yet  they  were  said.  John 
realised  how  pleasant  they  were  to  hear.  He  could 
imagine  Brent's  sneer. 

"And  will  you  tell  me  if  your  wife,  whom  I  saw  when 
I  came  in,  worked  at  the  mills?" 

"Only  about  a  year,  after  we  were  married,  that  is; 
she  was  in  the  spinning  rooms." 

"Do  you  rent  this  house?"  John  looked  around. 
"Please  don't  think  me  inquisitive,  I  am  really  asking 
for  a  purpose.  I've  chosen  number  seven,  you  see;  I 
want  to  get  at  the  situation." 

"The  house  is  partly  paid  for."  Vails 's  tone  was 
peculiar.  Evidently  he  disliked  the  role  of  representa- 
tive that  had  been  thrust  upon  him  because  of  the  num- 
ber of  his  house. 

"Is  that  your  only  child?" 

"No,  there's  an  older  one.  He's  at  his  grandmother's 
across  the  street." 

"Now,  one  or  two  other  things,  since  you  gave  me 
143 


DEIFT 

permission  to  conduct  this  cross-examination,  and  then 
I'm  through.    You  belong  to  the  union,  of  course." 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  tell  me  how  many  times  you  have  been 
promoted  in  the  last  eight  years?" 

"Nearly  every  year,  up  to  last  year." 

"And  will  you  tell  me — ■  No,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
I  have  no  right  to  ask  that  question.  I  take  it  you  are 
discontented  now  with  the  wages  that  you  are  get- 
ting?" 

"I'd  like  to  get  more.    That's  natural." 

"Have  you  consulted  your  foreman  about  when  you 
can  get  a  raise?    I  mean  aside  from  the  strike?" 

"I  was  thinking  about  doing  it — no  I  haven't." 

"I'd  like  to  say  again  that  I  appreciate  your  answer- 
ing all  these  questions.  Tell  me,  of  course,  if  at  any 
point  you  would  like  to  have  me  stop.  It  is  a  great 
help  in  clearing  my  mind  to  get  at  what  you  are  tell- 
ing me.  I  'd  like  very  much  to  know  how  long  you  have 
been  thinking  about  striking. " 

"Since  the  union  ordered  it." 

"Oh!"  Here  was  light,  indeed.  If  this  man  was 
typical — "Who  told  you  the  union  ordered  it?" 

"Mr.  Brent,  of  course.  He's  the  representative  here 
of  the  National  Federation  of  Silk  Workers." 

"I  see.    Do  you  belong  to  the  Discussion  Club?" 

"No.     I've  thought  about  joining." 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  you  think  of  the  justice  of 
the  strike?  I  mean  are  you  wholly  in  sympathy  with 
it,  with  what  is  asked?" 

"I'd  like  to  get  higher  pay  if  I  can.  I've  got  my 
children  to  think  of." 

"But  you  just  said  you  had  not  asked  your  fore- 
man when  you  could  get  a  raise." 

"That's  true,  but  I  didn't  suppose —  You  see,  if 
he  didn't  think — well  that  isn't  the  way  it  ought  to 

144 


DRIFT 

be,  to  ask.''  Vails  was  floundering.  The  union  had 
issued  no  instructions  as  to  how  he  was  to  comport 
himself  in  a  situation  like  this. 

John  had  one  more  question.  "You're  insured  in 
the  company  V 

"Yes." 

''Thank  you,  that  is  all.  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you."  John^s  tone  was  courteous  but  impersonal. 
He  was  not  aware  himself  of  how  he  bewildered  Vails. 
He  was  thinking  that  the  questions  he  put  concerned  the 
aims  of  his  whole  life,  and  yet  he  seemed  to  care  little 
how  they  were  answered.  The  strong  sense  he  had 
always  had  of  a  mutually  friendly  relationship  with 
every  inhabitant  of  the  town  of  Templeton  was  gone. 
There  was  no  rancour  towards  the  man  whom  he  ques- 
tioned, but  neither  was  there  any  special  interest.  He 
seemed  unimportant. 

John  rose  to  go.  Vails  fidgeted.  "I'd  be  glad  to 
tell  you  anything  more  I  can,"  he  said. 

"No,  that  is  enough.  One  thing  you  said  astonishes 
me.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  how  the  union  has 
obtained  such  extraordinary  power  over  men  who  are 
and  who  always  have  been  at  liberty  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  themselves.  The  company  would  not  pre- 
sume to  be  so  dictatorial.  I  will  say  good-night,  and 
once  more,  thank  you. ' ' 

John  knew  as  he  walked  away  that  he  could  have 
brought  Vails  to  apologise  and  repudiate  his  union  had 
he  cared  to  try,  but  what  was  allegiance  worth  if  it  could 
be  shifted  as  easily  as  that  ?  The  man  was  weak.  Eight 
years,  he  had  said,  eight  years,  and  in  all  that  time — 
not  a  spark  of  loyalty ! 

The  lady  who  had  spoken  of  John's  face  on  the  eve- 
ning he  first  met  Eileen,  as  wearing  a  radiant  look,  would 
hardly  have  known  him  had  she  seen  him  as  he  walked 
that  snowy  night  across  the  square  back  to  his  rooms. 

145 


DRIFT 

His  mouth  was  set.    He  had  the  look  of  one  who  is  de- 
termined not  to  show  a  wound. 

He  walked  slowly,  thinking  over  the  interview.  The 
man  had  no  particular  grievance,  he  was  rather  stupid, 
evidently;  he  was  taking  a  chance  on  getting  some- 
thing if  he  could  with  little  realisation  of  what  he  was 
risking  if  he  failed.  His  wife  had  seemed  more  troubled. 
Women  were  like  that,  they  did  not  want  to  be  dis- 
turbed, he  supposed.  Hoav  typical  was  Vails 's  view? 
That  was  the  only  important  thing. 

John's  estimate  of  the  weaver,  Frank  Vails,  was 
wrong.  He  had  left  on  the  doorstep  an  inarticulate 
but  miserable  man  who  sought  his  wife  to  tell  about 
the  visit  of  the  "Boss." 

"I  wish  I'd  said  something!  I  wish  I  had!  I  was 
a  fool  not  to.  I  don't  know  why  I  couldn't;  he  didn't 
seem  to  want  me  to  say  anything,  just  answer  his  ques- 
tions, and  they  were  queer  ones.  It  was  just  as  if  he 
didn't  care,  really,  what  happened,  and  then,  sud- 
denly, he  went  away.  I  wish  I'd  had  the  sense  to 
ask  him  if  he'd  tell  me  what  he  thought  about  it!  I 
wish  I  didn't  feel  so — mean!"  He  banged  about  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Vails  watched  him.  "If  you'd  had  the  sense 
not  to  listen  to  all  that  crazy  talk  Alfred  Brent  handed 
out,  I'd  respected  you  more,  Frank  Vails,  and  that's  the 
truth.  Why  didn't  you  wait  till  the  Boss  came  up  before 
decidin'?  You  might  a'  known  everything  would  be 
fixed  up.  I  nearly  went  in  and  talked  to  him  my- 
self while  he  was  waiting  for  you,  but  he  sorta  shut  me 
up  when  he  first  came  in." 

Her  husband  regarded  her  dismally.  "I  wish  you 
had,  anyway,"  he  said.  "I  wish  to  goodness  I'd  never 
signed!" 

"Next  time  perhaps  you'll  listen  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 

146 


DRIFT 

Vails.  "Now  go  across  and  get  Danny,  it's  late." 
Vails  went  across  to  his  father's  house  to  fetch  his 
son,  young  Danny,  but  the  boy  missed  his  frolic.  None 
of  his  tugging  wiles  could  coax  his  father  to  a  game; 
the  youngster  was  put  whimpering  to  bed. 

Late  that  night  John  sat  thinking  by  the  fire.  A 
desire  for  his  mother's  counsel  came  to  him.  It  was 
long  since  they  had  talked  together  intimately — why, 
why  had  he  not  told  her  at  once  of  the  difficulty?  He 
was  amazed  at  himself.  He  despatched  a  telegram  tell- 
ing her  of  the  situation  and  adding,  "I  wish  you  were 
here."  Giving  orders  to  be  called  early,  he  went  to 
bed  at  last,  still  undecided  what  course  to  pursue. 

Old  Mrs.  Peters  appeared  with  coffee,  humbled  and 
depressed  of  mien.  John  greeted  the  familiar  figure  of 
the  little  old  woman,  not  knowing  that  she  was  to  play 
an  important  part  in  what  was  to  take  place  that  day. 

Mrs.  Peters  was  an  institution  at  Templeton.  She 
had  worked  at  the  looms  as  a  young,  fair  girl ;  married 
and  seen  her  children  become  skilful  operatives  handling 
the  improved  machinery;  now  her  grandchildren,  edu- 
cated in  the  company's  schools,  were  seeking  higher 
positions  in  the  city. 

Mrs.  Peters  showed  a  tendency  to  tears  as  she  put 
the  low  table  near  the  fire.  "I  hope  you'll  find  the 
coffee  right,  sir,"  she  said,  "the  paper  '11  be  here 
shortly,"  and  then,  standing  near  the  door,  "Oh,  Mr. 
John,  I  can't  tell  you  how  bad  I  feel!" 

John  looked  at  her,  hoping  she  wasn't  going  to  cry. 
"That's  very  good  of  you,"  he  said. 

"I  hope  you  know  none  of  us  has  any  hand  in  it." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Peters?" 

The  woman  gulped  and  came  nearer.  "I'd  like  to 
speak  out  if  you'll  let  me,"  she  said,  and  John  nodded. 

147 


DRIFT 

"I  hear  the  strike's  going  to  be  called  today." 

"I  don't  know.    Possibly.    It  isn't  decided." 

"I  wanted  to  say —  I  wanted  you  to  know — we  old 
ones  tried  to  make  'em  see  reason,  but  it  seems  like 
what  Mr.  Wilkes  said  didn't  make  any  impression — 
but,  oh  I  do  believe,  Mr.  John,  I  do  believe  lots  of  'em 
hate  doin'  it.  Why  there's  many  that's  been  here  all 
their  lives;  they've  just  gone  crazy,  I  think — they  don't 
really  mean  it,  sir,  I  know  they  don't."  She  stood 
before  him,  a  weak,  trembling,  old  figure,  trying  to 
express  the  loyalty  that  was  in  her  breast,  to  make  ex- 
cuses for  those  who  in  her  sight  were  treacherous.  In 
spite  of  his  determination  to  be  unmoved  John  found 
himself  stirred  by  what  the  old  woman  said. 

" Thank  you,  Mrs.  Peters,"  he  held  out  his  hand,  "I'm 
glad  to  hear  what  you've  just  told  me."  He  opened 
the  door  for  her  and  she  went  out  slowly,  turning  to 
say,  "Please  don't  let  the  coffee  get  cold,  you'll  need 
it.     I'll  bring  the  paper." 

But  the  coffee  did  get  cold  while  John  stood  at  the 
window  thinking  of  what  the  old  woman  had  said. 
What  did  it  mean  f  Her  words  had  echoed  his  thoughts 
of  the  evening  before — was  it  possible  the  strike  was  un- 
popular ? 

Soon  the  operatives  began  streaming  by,  going  to- 
wards the  different  mills.  They  swung  along  in  the 
winter  sunshine  in  twos  or  threes,  talking  to  each  other ; 
some  of  the  young  ones  taking  little  slides  along  the 
ice  of  the  sidewalk.  John  drew  back,  not  to  be  seen. 
Brent  had  sneered  at  his  satisfaction  in  the  cheerful 
faces  of  his  work-people.  Good  God!  Why  should 
he  not  be  glad  that  he  brought  comfort  and  happiness 
into  thousands  of  lives?  He  watched  them  swarming 
in  to  the  different  departments. 

Their  unconcern  astonished  him.  How  could  they 
talk  and  chaff  as  they  were  doing?     Again  the  sense 

148 


DEIFT 

came  over  him  that  this  was  no  deeply  planned  affair 
|bf  long  fomenting,  but  a  flash  that  could  be  dealt  with 
by  the  same  methods  Brent  had  used,  only,  with  this 
difference,  he  could  build  on  the  foundation  of  years. 

He  took  a  sudden  resolution.  He  would  play  Anthony 
to  Brent's  Brutus.  He  would  put  to  the  test  the  al- 
legiance of  that  passing  throng  out  there ;  find  out  what 
they  really  wanted. 

He  sent  for  Morris.  "Call  a  meeting  of  all  the  fore- 
men and  supervisors  at  the  Hall  at  one  o'clock,' '  he 
said.  "Let  the  works  be  closed  and  such  of  the  weav- 
ers and  spinners  and  any  other  operatives  as  wish  to 
come  invited  to  attend  a  second  meeting  at  two.  Ask 
that  definite  action  of  the  strike  committee  be  deferred 
until  after  I  have  spoken  at  these  meetings." 

"Yes,  sir."  Morris's  expression  was  as  grim  as  on 
the  day  before.  He  seemed  to  have  decided  to  have  no 
views,  or  at  least  not  to  express  them. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

I  AM  glad  to  see  so  many  here,"  said  John,  stepping 
forward  on  the  platform.  "This  is  a  peculiar 
situation  in  which  we  find  ourselves.  I  have  thought 
that  by  talking  it  over  we  can  find,  possibly,  a  solu- 
tion. I  want  the  help  of  all  of  you."  He  stopped. 
There  was  a  complete  silence,  not  hostile,  not  kindly, 
merely  expectant. 

"I  am  informed  that  you  are  asking  for  a  flat  fifteen 
per  cent,  raise  in  all  departments  ? ' '  he  went  on. ' '  Is  this 
correct?"  His  quiet,  controlled  voice  seemed  to  treat 
the  matter  as  a  perfectly  simple  proposition,  needing 
only  a  little  investigation.  There  was  a  murmur  of 
assent. 

"All  right.  I  wanted  to  find  out  from  you  directly;  to 
learn  it  straight  from  your  own  lips.  It  is  difficult  deal- 
ing through  :ntermediaries.  We  have  always  believed 
in  direct  methods  here. 

"Very  well.  You  are  asking  for  a  fifteen  per  cent,  in- 
crease in  wage  scale  and  you  have  sent  word  to  us, 
the  board  of  directors  and  myself,  that  you  will  leave 
the  looms  unless  it  is  granted.  Am  I  correct?"  Again 
a  murmur  of  assent.  One  voice  cried  out,  "Right  you 
are." 

"Now,  I  should  be  glad  to  get  at  the  reason,  what  is 
back  of  your  decision,  what  led  you  to  make  the  re- 

150 


DRIFT 

quest,  I  mean?  I  am  free  to  admit  we  were  astonished. 
Today  I  am  here  to  find  out,  if  I  can,  why  you  are  dis- 
contented. "Will  anyone  in  the  audience  volunteer  to 
answer  ?"  He  turned  smilingly  to  Brent,  sitting  beside 
him  on  the  platform.  ''Anyone  except  Mr.  Brent.  I 
have  already  had  a  talk  with  him,  and  he  will  address 
this  meeting  later.' ' 

A  man  named  Wilkes  rose  in  the  back  of  the  hall.  He 
was  the  one  who  had  tried,  as  John  knew,  to  stem  the 
surging  tide  towards  the  strike;  but  before  he  could 
speak  a  stalwart  young  Swede,  much  excited,  was  on 
his  feet,  pounding  one  fist  into  the  other  palm.  "We 
believe  our  labour's  worth  more'n  it  gets,"  he  yelled, 
"and  we  want  it  all  paid  in  money — lots  more  money. 
We  don't  want  all  these  fancy  things  we  got  here,  we 
want  more  money.  Where 'd  you  be  if  you  couldn't  get 
us  to  work  for  you?  Nowhere!  You  couldn't  make 
anything — you'd  go  right  down,  down,  down,  till  you 
hadn't  a  cent.  Where 'd  you  be  if  you  didn't  have  our 
hands,  thousands  and  thousands  of  'em,  moving  quick 
over  the  shuttles  nine  hours  a  day  for  you?  All  we  want 
is  justice ;  we  want  our  work  paid  more,  lots  more,  and 
we're  going  to  get  it  too!  All  the  time  the  town  was 
gettin'  fixed  up — everybody  gettin'  fixed  up,  even  if 
they  didn't  want  to  be  fixed — the  union  was  laying  its 
plans  to  do  things  in  a  different  way,  a  mighty  different 
way.  It  was  planning  deep  too;  this  ain't  the  last 
strike." 

He  sat  down,  wiped  his  face  and  looked  around. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  then  a  low  murmur- 
ing sound.  It  was  hard  to  tell  what  it  indicated, — as- 
sent or  disapproval,  perhaps  both. 

"Does  anyone  else  wish  to  speak?"  John  asked. 
"Please  do  so.  I  desire  above  all  things  to  find  out 
what  you  are  thinking,  what  is  being  said  among  you. 
You  have  never  been  afraid  to  express  yourselves  frankly 

151 


DEIFT 

before."  He  turned  to  the  speaker.  "You  have  been 
frank  in  expressing  your  views,  I  wish  others  would 
do  the  same." 

Again  there  was  silence  then  Wilkes  rose.  "We  were 
ordered  to  strike  by  the  union,"  he  said  in  a  peculiar 
voice.  "We  had  no  choice,  except  to  break  with  the 
union;  at  least  so  we  were  told." 

Tumult!  Everyone  talking  or  hissing  or  applauding 
— a  few  cries  of  "It  isn't  so!" 

John  rose,  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and 
waited.  He  felt  a  sense  of  exultation;  he  was  almost 
afraid  it  might  betray  itself  in  his  voice. 

"There  is  a  curious  divergence  in  the,  ideas  expressed 
by  the  two  men  who  have  spoken,"  he  said.  "One 
would  imagine  from  Mr.  Wilkes's  statement  that  you 
were  not  free  agents,  or  at  any  rate  that  you  had  al- 
lowed yourselves  to  be  coerced.  I  take  it,  no  union  can 
order  a  strike  unless  its  members  agree.  I  had  thought 
that  when  there  were  grievances  it  was  the  work-people 
who  asked  the  support  of  the  union  in  case  of  a  strike. 
I  should  be  glad  to  have  the  matter  more  fully  ex- 
plained." 

No  one  spoke.  Wilkes  rose  again.  "I  have  told  you 
the  truth,  Mr  Templeton,"  he  said,  "ask  Mr  Brent 
to  explain." 

John  had  asked  him  and  Morris  to  sit  with  him  on  the 
platform,  to  Morris's  wrath.  John  had  been  fully  con- 
scious of  Brent,  and  had  watched  his  expression.  "Do 
you  wish  to  speak?"  he  asked. 

Brent  waved  his  hand  seemingly  with  perfect  good 
humour.    "Not  yet,"  he  said. 

"Well?"  John  made  a  forward  gesture  with  both 
of  his  hands.  "Please  be  frank,  please  speak  out  and  say 
what  you  have  to  say.  This  is  a  meeting  to  talk  things 
over,  to  see  if  we  can  understand  each  other.  I  should 
be  very  glad  indeed  to  get  more  light  on  this  matter. 

152 


DRIFT 

There  must  have  been  a  good  deal  of  talking  going  on 
before  the  proposition  was  made.  I  can't  imagine  why- 
it  should  be  so  difficult  to  repeat."  Again  he  waited. 
"Well,  if  no  one  else  wishes  to  speak,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
do  so?" 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  audience;  some  of  the  men 
smiled.  It  was  as  if,  insensibly,  a  weight  was  being 
lifted  from  them;  their  heads  went  up. 

"Is  there  any  one  in  this  room  who  has  been  here 
over  twenty-five  years?" 

One  or  two  voices  responded. 

"I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to 
rise."  Four  men  did  so,  rather  hesitatingly.  As  they 
rose  John  spoke  their  names  with  a  little  bow  of  greet- 
ing— "Mr.  Werneberg,  Mr.  Garrity,  Mr.  Metzger,  Mr. 
Erickson.  Now  will  you  four  men  tell  me  the  number 
of  times  in  the  last  twenty-five  years  that  the  company 
has  raised  the  wage  scale  of  its  employees?" 

The  men  looked  at  each  other.  Two  of  them  said 
five  with  slight  uncertainty,  one  four,  the  other  six. 

"Thank  you.  Now  will  some  of  you  who  came  ten 
years  ago  kindly  rise,  if  you  are  willing." 

Some  ten  or  fifteen  men  rose  one  after  the  other. 
Again  there  was  the  courteous  acknowledgment  by  name. 

"Will  you  tell  me,  please,  how  many  times  the  scale 
has  been  raised  in  ten  years  ? ' ' 

There  was  a  second's  pause.  "Three,"  said  one  and 
the  others  agreed. 

"Thank  you."  John  permitted  himself  a  look  at 
Brent,  who  replied  with  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head 
as  if  to  say,  "Go  ahead,  I'm  not  missing  anything." 

"Now,  my  men,"— he  used  the  possessive  pronoun 
consciously;  he  would  show  Brent  he  dared  to  say  it 
to  them  as  well  as  of  them,— "I  can  say  what  I  have  to 
say  to  you  in  a  very  few  words."  He  stopped,  con- 
sidering how  to  make  the  request  that  he  had  decided 

153 


DRIFT 

to  make,  namely,  that  the  demand  for  an  increase  in  wage 
scale  be  withdrawn.  He  knew  that  it  must  be,  if  ever 
again  there  was  to  be  peace  at  Templeton.  Anything 
less  would  be  compromise.  He  must  know  if  he  had 
their  confidence.  Suddenly  he  remembered  Mrs.  Peters 
— her  distress — her  broken  words.  He  had  hardly  taken 
them  in  at  the  time ;  now  their  significance  came  to  him 
with  disturbing  force.  He  looked  at  those  waiting  faces, 
many  of  them  known  to  him  personally,  and  the  hard- 
ness that  had  bound  him  gave  way.    He  began  to  speak. 

"I  used  the  words  'my  men*  just  now;  well,  the 
words  indicate  my  sense  of  a  personal  relationship  with 
you,  with  all  of  you.  I  was  on  a  street  car  one  day  and 
I  heard  two  boys  in  the  seat  in  front  of  me  taiking. 
One  of  them  was  from  a  distance.  They  were  talking 
about  swimming.  Now,  I  believe,  I  am  generally  known 
hereabouts  as  'the  Boss,'  but  this  boy  spoke  of  me  as 
'our  Boss.'  'You  ought  to  see  our  Boss  swim,'  w,as 
what  he  said.  I  assure  you  I  was  very  much  gratified 
to  be  so  claimed,  not  to  speak  of  the  compliment  to  my 
swimming." 

The  audience  laughed  a  little;  the  tension  was  re- 
laxing. 

As  John  heard  himself  relate  the  incident  he  had  a 
curious  sensation.  Almost  he  was  ashamed.  He  had 
resolved  to  be  absolutely  impersonal,  as  business- 
like and  commonplace  as  he  was  conscious  he 
had  been  on  the  evening  before  when  he  had  talked 
with  Frank  Vails.  He  would  not  show  that  he  cared, 
that  they  had  any  power,  no  matter  what  they  did,  to 
reach  him, — the  man.  He  would  be  the  employer 
merely,  the  head  of  Templeton  &  Co.  Now,  behold, 
the  words  he  had  used  as  a  challenge  to  Brent 
had  reacted  upon  himself.  He  had  meant  to  be  hard 
and  suddenly  he  found  himself  saying  this.  Well,  it 
was  out  now;  he  was  not  sorry. 

154 


DRIFT 

"Now,  as  I  see  it,"  he  went  on,  "there  are  two  meth- 
ods for  companies  and  employees  to  work  together — 
one  is  on  a  basis  of  trust  and  good- will, — the  feeling  that 
fttras  expressed  by  'our  Boss' — the  other  is  distrust  and 
hostility.  If  distrust  is  shown  on  either  side,  of  course, 
it  is  at  once  engendered  on  the  other.' ■  (Not  for  nothing 
had  those  bitter  thoughts  come  to  him  on  the  train.  A 
certain  vibrant  quality  in  his  own  voice,  as  remem- 
brance flashed  over  him,  seemed  almost  to  betray  what 
he  had  thought.)  "If  there  is  antagonism  and  distrust, 
there  must  of  necessity  follow  strikes — all  the  melan- 
choly trail  of  ills  known  as  '  labour  troubles '■ — rancour, 
ill-feeling,  hostility  and  distress,  surely  a  state  of  things 
we  do  not  desire  at  Templeton. 

"I  am  not  here  this  afternoon  to  plead  with  you. 
You  control  your  own  actions;  doubtless  you  have 
thought  carefully  about  this  one,  from  every  point  of 
view.  I  have  no  desire  or  intention  to  urge  you  to  any- 
thing that  you  do  not  wish  to  do.  I  merely  want  to 
call  your  attention  to  the  foundation  principle  upon 
which  this  business  is  run,  and  always  has  been  run, 
namely — good  faith.  I  think  I  do  not  need  to  prove 
to  those  of  you  who  have  been  here  a  number  of  years 
that  the  company  may  be  trusted  to  do  what  is  fair. 
Its  record  is  clear  in  the  statements  that  you  have  just 
heard.  The  raise  in  wage  scale  made  from  time  to 
time  is  based  on  the  profits  earned  by  the  business  and 
on  the  increasing  cost  of  living.  I  told  Mr.  Brent  yester- 
day that  I  thought  your  labour  was  worth  more.  I 
think  the  first  speaker  stated  this.  Well,  it  is  this  feeling 
on  the  part  of  the  company  that  has  led  to  the  increases 
in  pay ;  that  and  your  own  ability.  You  are  all  free  agents, 
to  make  terms  as  to  wages.  The  only  ultimate  means 
of  judging  what  they  should  be  is  skill,  isn't  it,  and 
application  and  ambition?  How  much  these  can  earn? 
"We  all  of  us  consider  the  United  States  a  free  country. 

155 


DRIFT 

(As  to  the  union  and  its  orders  I  have  little  to  say.  I 
cannot  believe  that  some  person  or  persons  away  from 
here  would  have  the  power  to  force  you  to  strike.  It 
is  inconceivable.  Your  actions  are  your  own  affair.  The 
company  gives  you  its  faith.  It  asks  yours.  I  am  going 
to  ask  you  to  withdraw  your  demand  for  an  increase  in 
wage  scale.  I  make  no  promises  for  the  future.  We  do 
not  know  what  it  will  hold.  The  only  assurance  you 
have  is  the  history  of  the  company's  dealings  with  you 
in  the  past.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say.  Mr.  Brent,  do 
you  wish  to  speak? " 

There  was  a  burst  of  applause,  some  cheers.  Brent's 
face  wore  an  odd  expression,  as  if  to  say,  " You've 
scored.  I  admit  it."  He  half  rose  when  a  voice  cried, 
"We  don't  want  to  hear  him."  Clamour  again —  "Let 
him  speak.    What's  he  got  to  say?" 

The  tall  Swede  who  had  spoken  first  was  on  his  feet. 
"I  ben  here  a  year,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  seen  any  in- 
crease of  wages;  and  I  don't  believe  there's  going  to 
be  any  more  now.  You're  all  fooled,  fooled  I  say.  You 
listen  to  anybody  talks  soft  and  polite  at  you." 

He  was  allowed  to  go  no  further;  hisses  and  cries  in- 
terrupted. John  waited,  sure  now,  wondering  what 
Brent  would  do. 

Heavily  Brent  rose  and  held  up  his  hand  for  silence. 
There  were  a  few  cries  of  "let  him  speak,"  but  for  the 
most  part  the  men  were  getting  into  their  coats  and 
moving  down  the  aisles.  They  seemed  to  ignore  their 
late  "leader."  John  had  won.  On  the  faces  of  those 
to  whom  he  had  spoken  was  a  mingling  of  relief  and 
shame,  yet  the  casual  way  in  which  he  seemed  to  have 
taken  the  whole  matter,  coming  to  them  simply  as  if  to 
say,  "Why,  look  here,  what's  all  this  about?"  had  freed 
their  minds  of  the  obligation  of  being  ashamed  of  them- 
selves. They  were  hugely  relieved.  Perhaps  the  master 
stroke  was  one  of  which  John  himself  was  wholly  un- 

156 


DRIFT 

conscious, — not  a  hint  or  a  word  as  to  what  the  build- 
ing of  Templeton  had  meant. 

There  was  hardly  a  man  present  who  had  not  been 
during  the  preceding  weeks  the  recipient  of  comments 
and  reproaches  from  his  women-folk.  Now  these  would 
end!  They  were  indeed  thankful.  Suddenly  they 
found  they  hated  Brent. 

John  stepped  down  from  the  platform  to  greet  vari- 
ous men  with  a  nod  or  a  word,  as  he  made  his 
way  towards  the  door.  If  there  were  emotion  in  the 
silent  grip  of  the  hand  some  of  the  men  gave  him,  he 
did  not  acknowledge  it.  His  manner  was  as  usual.  The 
affair  seemed  to  be  shrinking  in  importance. 

There  was  a  crowd  waiting  outside  for  the  second 
meeting.  Suddenly  the  gentle  Wilkes  did  a  surprising 
thing.  He  stood  in  the  doorway  and  waved  his  hat  with 
a  shout.  "The  strike's  off,''  he  yelled.  The  crowd  out- 
side gasped,  the  crowd  within  laughed.  There  was  a 
turning  of  heads  towards  Brent  for  confirmation. 

He  stepped  up  on  one  of  the  seats  and  clapped  his 
hands  for  attention.  ' '  Yes,  the  strike 's  off, ' '  he  shouted, 
"and  it  makes  me  sick,  the  way  you've  turned  tail.  An- 
other triumph  for  the  aristocratic  ideal!  You  don't 
like  that?  Well,  it's  true— stop  now,  don't  yell,  go 
home  and  think  about  it,  see  if  you're  proud  of  your- 
selves. The  exercises  are  not  concluded,"  he  changed 
his  voice  to  a  whining  drone,  and  cast  up  his  eyes.  "Let 
us  all  unite  in  singing  'Praise  God  from  whom  all 
blessings  flow!'  " 

It  was  lost.  That  excited  throng  of  men  were  not 
susceptible  to  gibes.  In  fact,  they  had  hardly  heard, 
above  the  noise  of  moving  feet.  But  John  had  heard, 
and  all  the  satisfaction  of  his  triumph  was  gone.  Where 
was  his  resolution  made  on  the  train  to  test  himself,  to 
find  out,  if  he  really  sought  first  the  good  of  his  men? 
He  had  manifested  his  power-— of  what  avail,  of  what 

157 


DEIFT 

avail?     A   rush   of   bitter   distrust  swept   over  him. 

The  tower  clock  showed  there  lacked  a  few  minutes 
of  the  time  set  for  the  next  meeting.  With  a  word  to 
Morris  to  begin  the  meeting,  explaining  that  he  would  be 
late,  he  gained  his  rooms.  "Ask  Brent  if  he  wishes  to 
speak/'  he  called  back. 

As  he  flung  open  the  door,  determined  to  get  away 
from  the  throng  for  a  moment,  his  mother  met  him. 
"John,  John!"  she  cried,  and  he  held  her  close,  press- 
ing his  face  down  on  her  shoulder.  Oh  the  blessedness 
of  having  her  come  like  that !  He  could  not  speak.  She 
would  understand,  she  would  be  wise,  she  would  know 
whether  he  was  honest  or  whether  he  merely  wanted 
— power.  Brent's  parting  sneer  had  cut  deep.  He  was 
racked  with  self-contempt. 

After  a  moment  he  released  her.  "Oh  Mother/ '  he 
said,  "it  was  so  easy,  so  hideously  easy!  They  hadn't 
thought  it  out.  If  I'd  been  here  it  wouldn't  have  hap- 
pened. Don't  you  see?  "What  other  way  can  you  deal 
with  them? — now,  I  mean.  They  aren't  ready  for 
anything  else,  they  aren't,  they  aren't!" 

"My  dear,  you  are  incoherent,"  said  his  mother, 
petting  him,  loving  him,  "you  forget  I  know  nothing 
of  what  has  happened  except  your  telegram." 

John  stared  at  her.  It  came  over  him  how  far  apart 
they  had  been,  and  she  had  said  no  word,  had  merely 
waited  until  now,  and  come  at  his  summons.  He  took 
her  hands  and  kissed  them. 

"I  must  go  now,"  he  said,  "they're  waiting  over 
at  the  Hall,  or  perhaps  they're  singing  a  hymn!  Will 
you  wait  here?  We'll  talk  afterwards — or  no,  you  come 
with  me.  Don't  I'm  out  of  my  head.  Oh,  Mother, 
why  did  we  do  all  this,  why  did  we?"  He  gestured 
outwards,  as  they  walked  across  the  common  to  the 
Hall. 

All  the  fire  was  gone  out  of  him,  all  the  faith,  but 

158 


DEIFT 

once  on  the  platform  he  spoke  simply  and  gravely  on 
much  the  same  lines  as  before.  The  meeting  was  quiet. 
In  spite  of  John's  effort  to  treat  all  as  casually  as  possi- 
ble, there  was  more  sense  of  shame. 

Late  that  night  John  and  his  mother  sat  talking.  All 
of  the  perplexities  that  had  beset  him,  all  the  doubt 
and  rage  and  bitterness  that  had  possessed  his  soul 
he  poured  out  to  her.  She  did  not  say  very  much,  did 
not  offer  counsel.  The  business  was  in  his  hands  now, 
she  said,  she  had  faith  in  his  judgment.  He  was 
soothed. 

He  had  ordered  his  room  arranged  for  her,  and  was 
to  sleep  on  the  sitting-room  couch  himself.  Was  it  a 
dream  that  someone  came  in  the  night  and  kissed  him 
on  the  forehead  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  hair? 

The  strike  was  off  in  spirit,  but  not  in  fact.  Once 
set  in  motion,  there  seemed  to  be  innumerable  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  stopping  the  machinery  of  rebellion.  There 
was  such  vexation  at  headquarters  it  looked  at  one 
time  as  if  the  strike  would  still  be  called,  but  Brent 
was  too  shrewd.  He  appreciated  fully  the  tide  of  feel- 
ing that  had  set  against  him.  John  admired  his  apparent 
good  humour.  He,  too,  refused  to  show  his  wound. 
After  that  one  outburst  he  made  no  further  reproach, 
but  set  about  the  task  of  adapting  his  tactics  to  an  al- 
tered situation  with  at  least  an  outward  semblance  of 
assiduity. 

A  week  later,  John  took  the  train  for  town.  He 
found  the  same  relative  seat  in  the  car  that  he  had  oc- 
cupied on  the  way  up, — he  could  have  not  said  why — to 
find  out  how  much  his  thoughts  had  changed  perhaps. 
There  was  no  longer  bitterness,  that  had  been  purged 
away  in  his  long  talk  with  his  mother,  her  pitifulness  had 
driven  it  forth,  but  there  was  profound  disillusionment. 
He  had  thought  that  by  his  striving  he  could  bring  the 

159 


DKIFT 

everlasting  struggle  a  little  nearer  to  solution,  could 
throw  some  light  on  the  difficult  path,  and  now  he  found 
that  he  had  done  nothing!  Never  again  could  he 
have  joy  or  confidence  in  his  work;  never  again  could 
he  greet  the  "happy  shining  faces"  of  his  work-people 
without  distrust;  never  again  could  he  be  sure.  He 
thought  of  the  evening  in  Dresden  when,  as  a  boy  of 
eighteen,  he  had  gone  out  alone  to  make  his  decision  as  to 
whether  he  should  devote  himself  to  music.  He  had  wan- 
dered about  half  the  night  before  he  could  force  him- 
self to  accept  the  obligation  laid  upon  him  by  his  dead 
father.  He  remembered  the  scene  with  his  old  maestro 
the  next  day  when  he  told  him  what  he  was  going  to 
do;  the  old  man's  wrath  had  been  exclamatory,  he 
seemed  to  think  he  had  been  cheated  into  teaching  a 
person  who  was  not  ernsthaft.  He  remembered  his 
efforts  to  keep  his  mother  from  knowing  what  his  de- 
cision had  cost  him;  her  tenderness  and  understanding, 
yet  her  indomitable  holding  to  the  faith  that  to  his  in- 
heritance, not  to  music,  was  his  allegiance  pledged. 

He  had  given  up  what  was  dearest  to  him  in 
life;  he  had  chosen  the  hardest  way  and  now  he  saw 
that  in  what  he  had  renounced  lay  for  him  the  only 
possibility  of  achievement.  Now  he  saw — when  it 
was  too  late. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HELEN  TUCKER  was  in  love,  and  Helen  Tucker  in 
love  was  a  very  beautiful  thing.  Her  eyes  radiated 
a  soft  light,  her  words  were  gay,  with  little  ripples  of 
laughter  running  through;  the  touch  of  her  hand  was 
warm  and  caressing,  and  her  swift  step  seemed  to  say, 
"lam  going  to  my  lover.' ' 

Spencer  Crockett,  coming  to  see  Eileen,  found  Helen 
waiting,  smiling  into  the  fire,  and  took  both  her  hands. 
He  was  wont  to  say  he  preferred  art  to  nature,  but 
Helen  Tucker  was  an  exception.  It  pleased  him  to  call 
her  Enone. 

"So!  there's  a  faun  in  the  forest,' '  he  said,  "and 
Enone 's  been  in  his  arms  and  finds  it  sweet?" 

This  was  disconcerting,  but  so  true  that  a  lovely 
flush  flamed  up  in  the  girl's  face. 

"My  child!  you  are  so  beautiful,  that  I  shall  have 
to  kiss  you,"  said  Spencer  Crockett.  He  bent  and 
kissed  her  forehead  gravely  and  turned  away.  There 
was  an  unaccustomed  feeling  in  his  throat. 

Helen  was  sometimes  in  awe  of  Spencer  Crockett,  and 
sometimes  he  exasperated  her.  She  thought  his  faint 
smile  intolerably  supercilious,  and  the  pretty  things 
he  said  to  her  always  seemed  tinged  with  the  ironic 
tolerance  with  which  he  regarded  all  human  creatures. 
Behold  him  now,  with  eyes  a  little  dimmed,  and  never 
a  wink  j  Helen  was  bewildered. 

161 


DKIFT 

"My  faun  is  quite  a  real  person,  and  we  haven't 
had  much  time  in  the  forest,' '  she  said.  "His  name 
is  Augustus  Lee,  and  he's  an  architect, — that  is,  he  is 
going  to  be  an  architect.  He  is  in  Brewster  &  Knoll's 
office.    I — I  love  him." 

Was  it  that  courtly  kiss  that  had  brought  out  those 
last  words?  One  corner  of  Spencer  Crockett's  mouth 
smiled.  * '  My  child ! "  he  said  again,  "  I  am  not  generally 
considered  a  stupid  person." 

Eileen  came  fluttering  in,  arms  outstretched ;  Crockett 
was  neglected  as  the  two  embraced. 

"Have  you  heard?"  said  Eileen,  turning  to  him, 
"what  this  reckless  young   person  proposes  to   do?" 

"I  hadn't,"  said  Crockett,  "until  she  told  me." 

"Good  gracious!"  Helen  turned  surprised  eyes  on 
him,  "but  you  said — " 

"Yes,"  said  Crockett,  "I  said — and  now  I  know — 
and  why  not?  Only  a  faun  can  bring  that  look  to  the 
eyes  of  a  river  nymph.    It  was  quite,  quite  plain." 

"Didn't  you  know  that  Mr.  Crockett  sees  what  others 
cannot  see?"  laughed  Eileen. 

"No,"  said  Helen,  "I  didn't,  except  as  regards  queer 
pictures;  he  certainly  does  in  them."  This  seemed  to 
her  so  impertinent  to  an  authority  on  art,  that,  having 
said  it,  she  looked  at  him  in  alarm  and  then  blushed 
again. 

Crockett  addressed  Eileen.  "I  had  to  kiss  her  once," 
he  said,  "she  was  so  beautiful.  I  fear  if  she  does  that 
I  may  have  to  again,  and  it  seems  to  hurt  my  throat." 

Eileen  took  a  hand  of  each  and  drew  them  down,  one 
on  each  side  of  her.  "Now  let's  talk  about  it,"  she 
said,  "and  in  the  years  to  come  it  shall  be  known  that 
Helen  Tucker  was  so  much  in  love  that  Spencer  Crock- 
ett wept." 

"When  I  told  him,"  said  Helen,  "he  said  it  wasn't 
necessary  to  mention  it." 

162 


DRIFT 

"I  didn't,"  said  Crockett,  "I  said  that  I  was  of  or- 
dinary intelligence. ' ' 

"Well,  don't  quarrel. "  Eileen  patted  each.  "Where 
is  Augustus  Lee?  I  want  to  see  him.  Your  note  was 
brief.  What  do  you  suppose  she  wrote  me,  Mr.  Crock- 
ett? 'I  am  going  to  be  married.  We  are  coming  to 
see  you  today/  That  was  all.  Where  is  he?  this  per- 
son? You  haven't  married  him  yet,  have  you?  It 
sounded  so  immediate, — your  note.'' 

"No,"  said  Helen,  "we  can't  be  married  for  ages. 
We  haven't  any  money."  She  leaned  forward  to 
speak  to  Crockett.  "I  said  that,  now,"  she  told  him, 
"  before  you,  because  it  had  to  be  got  over  some  time, 
and  Eileen's  remarks  might  have  been, — well — hard  to 
deal  with.  They  are  sometimes."  Her  hand  possessed 
itself  of  Eileen's,  and  it  was  the  latter 's  turn  for  a  catch 
of  the  breath. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh  dear!"  she  said.  "When  people  talk 
like  that,  I  wish  I  hadn't — what's  the  sense  of  it,  if 
you  can't — if  people  you  love  won't — "  This  was  an 
old  subject  of  discussion,  evidently,  between  these  two 
unlike  and  beautiful  friends!  Crockett  suspected  as 
much.  It  was  graceful  of  them,  but  he  was  helpless. 
How  lovely  they  were  in  their  different  ways ! 

"If  people  you  love  won't!"  he  echoed— "and  they 
so  seldom  will!" 

Helen  broke  in,  "But  we  don't  want  anything,  you  see. 
It  doesn't  matter,  does  it,  all  that  I  mean,  when  we 
know?" 

Again  Crockett  found  himself  at  a  loss.  What  odd 
creatures  young  womenkind  were!  And  just  then  Mr. 
Augustus  Lee  was  announced. 

A  young  man  entered  and  stepped  eagerly  forward, 
a  presentable  young  man,  good-looking,  clean-cut  and 
clean-shaven,  but  not  different  in  appearance  from  many 

163 


DEIFT 

others,  save  perhaps,  to  the  eyes  of  one  who  now  re- 
garded him;  her  own,  love-lit  and  luminous. 

Helen's  phraseology  seemed  to  have  turned  sentimen- 
tal, possibly  by  reason  of  Mr.  Crockett's  remarks. 

"My  friend,  my  lover/'  she  said  by  way  of  intro- 
duction, and  Eileen  and  Augustus  Lee  shook  hands. 
"And  this  is  the  person  who  thinks  you're  a  faun,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Crockett. 

As  the  two  men  greeted  each  other,  Crockett's  glance 
was  keen.  His  habitual  slant  smile  was  gone.  His  look 
seemed  to  demand  "Are  you  the  one?" 

"I  hope  you  will  like  me,  Mr.  Lee,"  Eileen's  voice 
sounded  like  that  of  a  shy  child,  * '  because,  well,  because 
Helen  does.  I'm  so  relieved  to  find  you  aren't  as  for- 
midable as  your  name."  She  looked  at  him  consider- 
ingly. "I  was  brought  up  with  the  bust,  you  know. 
I've  been  thinking  about  the  expression  ever  since 
Helen's  note.    It  seemed  grim  for  a  lover." 

The  young  man  looked  puzzled,  then  he  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed.  "Didn't  the  'Lee'  help?"  he 
said,  "and  twenty-seven  isn't  so  awfully  'young.'  I'd 
like  you  to  like  me  too,  please." 

Augustus  Lee  turned  to  Crockett.  "Your  name  seems 
to  be  withheld  from  me  by  these  ladies,  why  I  don't 
know,  but  may  I  compliment  you  on  your  discernment? 
A  faun  is  precisely  what  I  feel  like, — the  kind  that 
skips  and  shouts  and  loves  the  sun." 

Tea  was  brought  in  shortly,  and  there  was  more 
sentimental  nonsense  to  cover  the  tremulousness  of  these 
two  who  had  found  each  other  and  were  startled  into 
such  mad  joy  by  the  discovery. 

"If  one  may  speak  of  ordinary  things  in  Arcady," 
said  Spencer  Crockett,  turning  to  Lee  with  his  air  of 
interest,  "do  you  know  anything  about  the  plans  for  the 
new  Uptown  Club?    Your  firm  has  a  responsibility  to 

164 


DRIFT 

make  a  very  beautiful  building  with  that  site  and  out- 
look." 

Augustus  Lee's  face  wore  an  amused  smile.  "Yes,  I 
know  a  good  deal  about  them,"  he  said.  "I  am  making 
them."  Then,  embarrassed  at  his  statement,  he  has- 
tened to  modify  it  by  adding  that  of  course  he  was  only 
drawing  out  detail.  Crockett  was  quite  wise  enough 
to  understand  the  impulsive  words  Lee  had  let  slip, 
but  he  made  no  comment. 

"Have  you  heard  any  mention  of  a  plan  for  decorat- 
ing the  main  room?"  he  asked.  "I  am  anxious  that  a 
painter  by  the  name  of  Medway  should  be  commissioned 
to  paint  a  series  of  panels.  He  is  one  of  the  big  men, 
I  think;  his  work  is  just  beginning  to  be  known." 

"Oh,  I've  seen  it!"  Lee  exclaimed,  his  whole  face 
lighting  with  his  remembrance  of  an  afternoon  he  had 
spent  at  Medway 's  studio.  "I  knew  his  sister,  Carol 
Medway,  at  the  Art  Students'  League.  She  took  me  to 
see  his  pictures  one  day.  Isn't  he  great?  I  didn't 
know  there  was  any  plan  on  foot  for  him  to  do  the 
Club.  Golly,  I'd  like  to  see  that  go  through!  It's 
going  to  be  a  great  room,  I  tell  you." 

Helen  jumped  up  at  the  striking  of  the  clock.  "We 
must  be  at  home  by  dinner-time,"  she  said,  and  then 
softly  to  Eileen,  "Mother's  so  happy!" 

Spencer  Crockett  watched  the  two  from  the  window. 
He  came  back  when  they  were  out  of  sight.  "I  wish  I 
didn't  feel  so  holy,"  he  said,  "it  unfits  one  for  dinner 
at  the  Club." 

Eileen  went  slowly  upstairs.  So !  that  was  what  love 
was!  She  went  to  the  window  as  Crockett  had  done, 
and  looked  down  the  street,  the  street  those  two  had 
trod.  The  lamps  made  little  radii  of  light,  people  were 
hurrying  along  holding  umbrellas  aslant;  a  newsboy's 
raucous  tones  called  out  "Extry!  Extry!  All  about  the 
suicide  for  love!"    The  cry  seemed  to  come  from  some 

165 


DEIFT 

hellish  depths.  It  struck  upon  her  exalted  mood  with 
the  death-dealing  intonations  of  a  funeral  bell.  She 
shuddered  and  turned  away.  That  was  love  too — that 
was  what  love  meant,  sometimes. 

She  was  still  standing  at  the  window  when  she  heard 
John  come  running  up  the  stairs  calling  her  name. 
She  ran  to  greet  him  and  he  held  her  close,  silently. 
"0  John,"  she  cried.  "John!  I'm  so  glad  you're 
back!  I  love  you — I  love  you!  Love  can  be  very 
wonderful,  we  must  make  it  everything,  mustn't  we,  not 
let  anything  else  come  in.  Oh,  can't  we  make  it  beau- 
tiful—like those  two?" 

She  told  him  as  he  held  her  of  Helen  and  Augustus 
Lee  and  of  what  Spencer  Crockett  had  said.  She  wished 
he  had  not  expressed  his  fear  when  they  were  so  happy — 
it  seemed  to  make  it  all  wrong — dangerous — she  had 
!been  afraid.  "0  John,"  she  gave  him  a  little  shake, 
"they  want  to  be  married,  they  ought  to  be  married  if 
they  can  be  happy,  and  they  haven't  any  money.  Doesn't 
that  seem  a  silly  reason?  Don't  you  suppose  they'll 
let  me — it's  so  terrible  not  to  be  able  to — so  intoler- 
able!" 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  him  a  startled  face.  "The 
strike?"  she  said.  "What  happened?  How  could  I 
forget?    How  could  I?" 

"It's  off,"  John  told  her,  "I  talked  to  the  men.  It 
was  very  easy.    They  don't  know  what  they  want." 

To  his  dismay  she  began  to  cry,  bitterly,  hysterically. 
1 '  Oh,  what  made  me  ?  How  could  I  ? "  she  sobbed.  "  I  'm 
just  like  Nora,  just  a  doll  wife,  like  her —  Did  you 
bring  me  some  chocolate  creams  ? ' ' 

John  tried  to  comfort  her,  telling  her  that  it  was  no 
matter,  that  he  was  glad  to  get  his  thoughts  away,  that 
her  greeting  had  been  sweet  to  him  beyond  words,  but 
nothing  he  could  say  availed.  She  clung  to  him  begging 
ior  his  forgiveness. 

i6a 


DRIFT 

Meanwhile  Augustus  Lee  was  saying,  "Do  take  me  to 
see  some  more  'society  leaders'  please.  What  an  en- 
chanting thing  to  look  upon  Mrs.  Templeton  is,  and  that 
house  for  a  setting!    It's  a  wonder!    Who  did  it?" 

"I  can't  remember,"  Helen  told  him,  "Eileen  herself, 
I  dare  say.  She  is  wonderful,  isn't  she?  And  nobody 
knows  what  a  friend  she  is.  She  would  like  to  buy  us  a 
house  and  lot,  or  let  us  say  a  country  estate,  tomorrow. 
Shall  I  ask  her?" 

The  face  of  the  young  lover  grew  grave,  and  Helen's 
troubled. 

"Dear!"  she  said,  "please  let  me  say  foolish  things! 
Do  you  think  I  want  a  house  and  lot  when  I  hav.e  you  ? ' ' 

His  hand  reached  out  and  found  hers,  and  they  sat 
silent,  drinking  in  the  magic  of  each  other's  touch. 

They  had  taken  the  end  seat  of  the  crowded  suburban 
train.  Now  and  then  a  passer-by  would  give  a  little 
smile  as  his  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  hour  when  for  him 
too  the  touch  of  a  hand  transformed  the  world.  There 
were  jostling  crowds  about,  and  peanuts  and  evening 
papers  and  bananas  and  babies;  but  these  things  were 
not :  they  wandered  on  the  sunny  slopes  of  Ida,  around 
them,  the  soft  silences  of  woodland  places,  in  their  ears 
the  cries  of  mating  birds:  Enone, — calling,  calling,  to 
her  lover;  he,  crashing  towards  her  in  his  eager  haste; 
the  high  gods  looking  on. 

Spencer  Crockett  wended  his  middle-aged  way  to  his 
Club.  He  was  profoundly  disturbed  What  was  it? 
What  did  he  fear  ?  He  could  not  tell.  Friar  Lawrence's 
nodding  words  came  to  his  mind.  "These  violent  de- 
lights have  violent  ends  and  in  their  triumph  die;  like 
fire  and  powder  which  as  they  kiss,  consume."  That 
security  of  joy, — why  was  it  so  tragic?  Something 
stirred  within  him, — an  impulse  to  cherish,  to  protect, 
to  guard  at  all  costs  the  beauty  and  wonder  which  he 

167 


DRIFT 

had  just  seen.  He  considered  what  he  could  do,  and 
smiled  at  his  fantastic  thoughts,  knowing  his  powerless- 
ness.  He  smiled  again,  in  his  strange  fashion,  a  few 
weeks  later  when  Eileen  told  him  that  "his  faun  and 
river-nymph"  were  married. 

1 '  I  thought  so, ' '  he  said.    ' '  On  nothing  ? ' 9 

"On  everything, ' '  Eileen  replied. 

"I  said  on  nothing,'  •  Crockett  insisted.  "The 
'Young  Augustus'  is  misnamed.  He  is  very  attractive, 
but  he  is  a  child,  a  brilliant  child, — a  faun.  I  saw 
his  pointed  ears." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  lovers  dawdled  up  the  road  that  led  to  the  Staten 
Island  cottage  and  dined  dutifully  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tucker,  "Gus"  making  himself  charming  in  his 
gay,  boyish  way.  As  Helen  watched  him,  she  thought 
there  was  something  oddly  appropriate  in  calling  him  a 
faun.  Life  sat  lightly  on  his  shoulders,  he  took  the 
world  with  a  laugh,  and  the  world  laughed  back.  She 
had  met  him  at  a  fancy-dress  ball  dressed  as  Pierrot. 
They  had  danced  together  all  of  the  evening,  flirting 
gayly,  met  next  day,  and  again  the  next,  and  now  two 
months  after,  they  had  promised  each  other  to  spend 
their  lives  together. 

Josiah  Tucker  had  been  rather  bewildered,  but  could 
find  no  valid  objections.  He  was  not  ready  to  call  his 
prospective  son-in-law  a  " scholar,' '  but  a  "gentleman" 
seemed  applicable.  Letters  had  been  received  from 
Augustus's  mother  and  father,  gentlefolk  of  small  means 
living  in  Pennsylvania;  Helen  had  replied  with  proper 
expressions  about  hoping  to  be  a  real  daughter  to  them ; 
it  was  all  quite  usual  and  the  horizon  seemed  fair. 
There  was  nothing  to  marry  on,  but  that  was  usual  too. 

After  dinner  the  two  wandered  out  into  the  night, 
down  the  road,  across  a  meadow  to  the  sea.  The  remote, 
cool  darkness  was  very  sweet.  It  was  almost  raining, 
a  soft  mist  touched  their  faces;  there  was  a  feeling  of 
spring  mildness  in  the  air.    Their  young  pulses  danced 

169 


DRIFT 

and  sang,  and  their  talk  was  the  world-old  lovers'  talk, 
— the  incredible  wonder  of  their  meeting,  the  humility, 
the  pride,  the  sense  of  perfect  rest. 

Finally  Gus  said,  "I  suppose  there  are  thousands  of 
others  saying  these  same  things  tonight,  and  all  of  us 
thinking  that  we  are  the  only  ones  to  know  what  it 
means.' ' 

Helen  pressed  closer  to  him.  "But  we  are  the  only 
ones,''  she  said,  "who  really  and  truly  know." 

As  they  turned  homeward  and  knew  they  must  soon 
part,  they  talked  of  their  marriage.  It  must  be  soon, 
they  could  not  say  good-night  many  times  more, — it  was 
too  hard.  What  did  a  place  to  live  in  matter,  what  did 
clothes  matter?  They  wanted  each  other's  arms, — oh, 
it  must  be  soon,  it  must!  They  considered  Gus's  salary 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month;  surely  that 
would  do — it  must  do, — they  planned  it  all  out. 

When  he  left  her,  Helen  stood  on  the  steps  of  the 
cottage  quivering  from  his  kisses,  her  flesh  bruised  from 
his  embrace, — she  loved  the  hurt.  She  listened  until 
the  last  sounds  of  his  footsteps  disappeared.  "Dear 
God,"  she  said,  "I  wish  that  I  could  die  now, — tonight. 
There  cannot  be  anything  more  than  this." 

After  a  while  she  crept  upstairs  to  her  room,  the 
pretty  rose-room  that  had  been  hers  alone  all  her  life. 
Now,  what  was  to  come  ?  The  loneliness  was  at  an  end. 
She  t6ok  off  her  dress  and  let  fall  the  brown-gold  glory 
of  her  hair.  She  wanted  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
She  wondered  how  her  eyes  would  look.  Mr.  Crockett 
had  said,  "Only  a  faun  could  bring  that  look  to  the 
eyes  of  a  river  nymph."  Slowly  she  turned  to  the 
mirror,  and  picking  up  a  candle,  held  it  high  over  her 
head,  and  gazed  at  the  image  of  herself.  No  it  was  not 
herself  any  longer ;  she  belonged  to  him,  to  her  lover, — 
all  that  radiance  was  his !  She  bent  forward  and  kissed 
her  own  lips  in  the  glass, — because  she  was  his,  because 

170 


DRIFT 

Boon,  soon,  she  could  give  all  the  beauty,  the  rich  sweet- 
ness that  she  saw,  to  him.  Then,  trembling,  she  put  out 
the  light  and  crept  into  bed. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay,  looking  into  the  darkness, 
her  senses  wrapped  in  the  languor  of  first  awakened 
passion,  her  very  soul  engulfed  in  the  need  to  give. 

The  sun  was  high  and  bright  when  she  awoke,  to  see 
her  mother  smiling  beside  her,  a  coffee  tray  in  her  hand. 

"What  a  lazy  child,  and  oh,  how  lovely  you  are!" 
cried  the  mother  kissing  the  flushed,  happy  face.  ' *  I  've 
wanted  to  say  that  for  twenty  years,  ever  since  you  were 
born,  for  you  were  a  lovely  baby.  I  don't  know  why  I 
didn't.    Now  you  are  engaged,  I  guess  it  won't  hurt." 

Helen  drank  her  coffee,  and  the  two  women  cried 
and  then  laughed  in  a  way  women  have  when  they  are 
happy  and  no  man  is  by  to  be  worried  and  bewildered. 

"Here  are  some  letters  for  you,"  Mrs.  Tucker  said. 
"I  nearly  forgot.  I  suppose  they  are  congratulatory 
notes."  After  her  mother  disappeared,  Helen  lay  in  her 
white  bed  and  watched  the  sunshine  on  the  carpet.  She 
didn't  want  to  get  up,  she  didn't  want  to  read  her 
letters, — all  she  wanted  to  do  was  to  lie  and  dream,  to 
shut  her  eyes  and  remember  last  night,  the  mad,  mad, 
joy! 

Finally  she  picked  up  the  topmost  note,  turning  it 
about  to  find  the  signature,  "Anna  Lee,"  Augustus's 
little  sister.    What  could  she  have  to  say. 

"Dear  Miss  Tucker,"  it  began,  "I  have  seen  you  only 
once,  but  I  like  you.  I  think  you  ought  to  know  some- 
thing before  you  marry  Gus." 

Helen  looked  up,  startled,  piteous, — she  looked  about 
the  room,  she  wanted  to  cast  the  note  from  her.  In  a 
moment  she  forced  herself  to  go  on. 

"Mother  said  that  you  mustn't  know.  She  said  that 
Gus  was  so  happy  now,  it  would  be  all  right,  but  I 
know  it's  right  to  tell  you,  and  then  you  can  decide. 

171 


DEIPT 

We  don't  know  anything  for  sure,  but  sometimes  he  is 
so  strange.  Last  summer  when  he  was  working  so  hard, 
it  began.  It  isn't  drinking,  it's  something  else.  I  don't 
know  what,  I  don 't  know  anything  at  all.  Mother  would 
be  very  angry  if  she  knew  I  wrote  you  this  letter.  She 
tried  to  make  me  promise  that  I  wouldn't  tell.  I'm 
crying  dreadfully  while  I  write  it.  It  nearly  kills  me, 
I  love  Gus,  he's  my  only  brother, — but  I  have  to  tell 
you.  It  isn't  right  for  you  not  to  know, — it  isn't. 
Dear  Miss  Tucker,  please  be  very  kind  to  Gus.  Your 
loving  friend,  Anna  Lee." 

Helen  tore  the  letter  violently  across.  It  wasn't  true, 
it  wasn't  true!  She  knew  Gus  better  than  anyone  on 
earth, — she  had  seen  him  every  day  for  months, — she 
would  know  if  there  had  been  anything  wrong.  She 
picked  the  letter  up,  putting  the  pieces  together.  What 
did  it  say?  "Last  summer  when  he  was  working  so 
hard."  Yes  of  course,  it  might  have  been,  but  that 
was  before  they  knew  each  other.  Now  there  could  be 
nothing!  She  tore  the  letter  again,  and  yet  again. 
Then  she  got  up,  and  taking  the  little  pieces  to  the 
fireplace,  burned  them.  There  must  be  nothing  left  of 
those  dreadful  words.  What  did  a  girl  of  fifteen  know 
of  such  things?  Gus  would  be  so  angry!  Would  he 
guess  from  her  expression  that  she  was  concealing 
something?  He  must  never,  never  know  that  Anna  had 
written  that  treacherous  letter.  Perhaps  years  later  she 
would  tell  him,  and  they  would  laugh  about  it  together, 
— there  would  be  some  explanation,  of  course.  Gus's 
mother  was  right:  if  there  had  been  anything  wrong, 
Gus  was  happy  now,  it  would  be  all  right.  How  fool- 
ish she  was  to  be  so  frightened  over  the  words  of  a  child. 

She  dressed  herself  quickly.  She  must  find  her  mother 
and  be  natural  and  forget  the  letter.  She  looked  at 
herself  in  the  glass — where  was  the  vision  she  had  seen 
last  night  ?   The  eyes  were  frightened.   No,  no,  no !    She 

172 


DEIFT 

would  not  believe  it!  No  one  must  ever  know  tha£ 
she  had  seen  the  letter, — she  resolved  not  to  answer 
it.  Anna  would  think  it  had  not  been  received.  They 
were  so  happy!  He  would  come  in  a  few  hours,  they 
would  be  happy  again.  They  must  be  married  soon, 
they  must  be!  Gus  would  be  happy  and  all  would  be 
well.  Oh,  how  she  wanted  him,  to  still  by  his  presence 
this  ache  of  fear!  She  almost  telephoned  to  ask  if  he 
could  come,  but  no,  she  must  not  do  that. 

The  hours  dragged.  She  looked  carefully  in  the  ashes 
to  see  that  every  scrap  of  the  letter  was  burned.  Six 
o'clock  came  at  last  and  with  it  Gus,  eager,  happy. 
Sobbing,  she  fell  into  his  arms.  "Oh,  I've  wanted  you 
so!"  she  cried,  clinging  to  him,  holding  him  desperately, 
"wanted  you  so  dreadfully !  Can't  we  be  married  soon ? 
Oh  Gus  dear,  let's  be  married  right  away, — what  does 
anything  else  matter?    I  want  you!    I  want  you!' ' 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  rain  came  down  steadily,  steadily;  Eileen  stood 
at  the  window  following  with  her  forefinger  the 
delicate  patterns  of  the  drops  upon  the  glass.  Would 
the  day  never  end?  She  looked  out  at  the  dripping  trees, 
at  the  beaded  shrubbery,  at  the  swaying  flowers,  ap- 
praising them  as  senseless  and  uncompanionable.  She 
wondered  how  other  people  managed  to  get  comfort  or 
consolation  out  of  things  like  these.  After  a  little  she 
drew  the  shade  and  went  back  to  her  couch  which  had 
been  drawn  before  the  fire.  Why  couldn't  she  read  any 
more?  Was  she  growing  utterly  vacant  minded?  She 
picked  up  her  book,  but  the  pages  seemed  dead  and 
meaningless.  There  was  nothing  in  them  that  related 
itself  to  her  thoughts,  to  the  one  overwhelming  fact 
which  absorbed  and  possessed  her. 

In  a  few  weeks,  three  perhaps,  four  at  most,  the 
child  would  be  born,  her  child,  John's  child.  In  all 
the  months  since  that  unforgettable  day  when  she  first 
knew  it  was  to  be,  when  the  knowledge  was  forced  upon 
her  beyond  doubt,  she  had  not  been  able  to  accustom  her- 
self to  the  idea.    It  still  seemed  incredible  and  unreal. 

Aunt  Emma  was  frankly  delighted  and  sent  exquisite 
small  garments  at  short  intervals.  She  confessed  that 
she  had  grieved  at  the  delay.  Everyone  spoke  to  her  as 
if  this  were  a  joyful  thing  that  was  about  to  happen,  but 
for  months  past  she  had  known  only  pain  and  discom- 

174 


DRIFT 

fort,  a  sense  of  distress  and  depression  that  she  had  not 
been  able  to  escape.  Soon  there  must_be  great  agony. 
How  was  she  to  face  it.  Well,  other  women  had  gone 
through  it  and  lived  to  be  glad  again,  perhaps  she 
would. 

Another  half  hour  passed.  The  rain  kept  up  its  mad- 
dening drip,  drip.  Eileen  rose  heavily  and  went  to 
look  at  herself  in  the  long  glass  in  the  hall.  The  dis- 
figurement was  unbearable.  Sitting  down  by  the  mirror 
she  threw  a  long  cloak  around  her,  then,  pulling  the 
lace  folds  of  her  dress  back  from  her  shoulders  turned 
her  head  slowly  and  looked  at  herself  again.  No  use! 
Her  white  face  and  dark-rimmed  eyes  showed  the  strain. 
With  a  little  cry,  she  turned  from  the  glass  and  went 
again  to  her  lounge. 

It  was  there_John  found  her,  when  he  came  at  dusk, 
staring  into  the  fire,  dull  and  silent. 

"My  dear!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  is  it?  I  am  so 
sorry!  What  can  I  do  to  help  you?"  He  bent  over 
her,  but  underneath  the  tender  concern  of  his  voice 
Eileen  imagined  she  detected  exultation.  He  wanted 
the  child,  and  what  she  had  to  bear  was  unimportant. 
She  turned  away  from  his  touch  with  a  short  laugh  and 
an  indifferent  "Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  and  questioned  him, 
with  a  show  of  interest,  as  to  his  day.  He  answered 
readily  and  the  farce  of  the  evening  began,  he  trying 
his  best  to  distract  and  amuse  her,  she  answering  ab- 
sently as  she  had  ten  thousand  times  before  it  seemed, 
and  thinking,  "Why  doesn't  he  think  about  me?  Why 
doesn't  he  ask  me  what  I'm  thinking  about?  It's  be- 
cause he  doesn't  care,  he  doesn't  want  to  know.  If  the 
child  is  all  right  it  doesn't  matter  what  I'm  going 
through." 

Her  irritation,  underneath  their  talk,  grew  so  acute, 
that  suddenly  she  arose  and  left  the  room,  paying  no 
heed  to  his  anxious  inquiry.    Alone  in  her  own  room 

175 


DRIFT 

the  tears  came,  and  she  sobbed  herself  to  quietness.  She 
had  been  asleep  when  John  came  up  and  wakened 
her  by  asking  if  she  wanted  him,  if  he  could  do  any- 
thing for  her. 

"No  thank  you,"  she  said,  and  turned  away. 

The  man  stood  by  the  bedside  looking  down  upon  her 
as  she  lay,  one  arm  flung  over  her  face.  Everything 
in  him  longed  to  help  her,  to  comfort  her,  to  give  her 
ease  from  the  distress  he  knew  was  hers,  yet  he  found 
no  word.  He  asked  if  he  could  do  anything  for  her. 
She  made  no  answer,  and  he  turned  to  go  to  his  room. 
As  he  reached  the  door,  she  gave  a  little  moaning  cry  to 
him  to  come.  Instantly  he  was  at  her  side,  kneeling  by 
the  bed,  trying  to  take  her  hands.  "What  is  it?  Oh, 
what  is  it  ? "  he  said.    ' '  Can 't  I  help  a  little  I ' ' 

She  clung  to  him  then,  crying  like  a  little  hurt  child. 
"0  John,  John!  I'm  so  unhappy  and  so  afraid,  and 
you  never  ask  me,  and  I  think  all  day,  and  when  you 
come  home  you  just  talk  about  other  things,  and  I'm  so 
lonely,  so  terribly  lonely." 

The  pleading  words  seemed  to  him  poignant  beyond 
bearing.  She  had  used  them  before  when  the  floodgates 
had  been  broken  by  her  bitter  need  and  they  had  come 
for  the  moment  closer  to  each  other  through  the  medium 
of  stammered  words.  It  seemed  they  spoke  the  truth 
to  each  other  only  at  these  times,  under  the  stress  of 
some  desperate  determination  to  attain  something  out 
of  reach. 

"I'm  so  lonely!  so  terribly  lonely!"  The  tone,  even 
more  than  the  words,  smote  upon  his  brain  with  an 
intensity  he  sought,  in  self-defence,  to  allay.  What 
was  there  he  could  do?  He  too  was  lonely.  He  had 
been  lonely  during  the  four  years  of  their  marriage 
and  had  accepted  it  as  inevitable.  While  he  believed 
her  happy,  he  put  his  own  longing  aside,  but  when  she 
cried  out  to  him  from  the  desolation  of  her  loneliness, 

176 


DEIFT 

he  could  not  tell  why  they  failed  to  reach  each  other. 

When  she  was  quieter,  he  drew  a  chair  beside  the  bed 
and  stroking  her  hand,  tried  as  best  he  could  to  draw  a 
picture  of  the  child  that  was  to  come,  asked  her  about  the 
name,  of  what  they  should  do  the  following  summer, 
when  plans  must  be  made  according  to  the  needs  of  a 
tiny  child  and  its  caretaker.  She  listened  for  a  little, 
then  suddenly  drew  her  hand  away. 

"You  are  talking  as  you  would  to  soothe  a  petulant 
child !"  she  exclaimed.  "You  can  never,  never  under- 
stand!    Oh,  please  go,  please  go!" 

John  rose  and  went  to  his  own  room,  where  he  sat 
thinking,  trying  to  make  some  plan  for  her,  until  a 
streak  of  sunlight  came  through  his  shutters. 

It  was  late  when  he  awoke.  Sophie  told  him  that  her 
mistress  had  not  rung  for  her,  and  asked  what  she 
should  do.  John  went  to  the  door  and  listened,  but 
there  was  no  sound.  He  hoped  Eileen  was  asleep  and 
wrote  a  little  note  for  her,  to  be  given  her  when  she 
awoke.  Leaving  a  message  as  well  that  he  would  re- 
turn as  early  as  possible  in  the  afternoon,  he  went  to 
town. 

The  scene  of  the  night  seemed  to  John  typical  of  the 
difficulties  of  their  short  married  life.  As  he  sat  think- 
ing in  the  train,  he  looked  back  over  the  four  years, 
from  the  first  days  at  the  Farm  to  the  present.  It 
was  inexplicable  to  him  that  the  coming  of  a  child 
should  be  so  full  of  distress.  He  wondered  why  he  was 
so  useless;  everything  that  he  did  was  wrong.  This 
strange  feminine  soul  that  cried  out  to  him,  he  could 
not  meet,  could  not  answer.  During  the  first  years  it 
was  he  who  had  called  to  her  across  great  silences ;  now 
she  in  her  need  reached  forth  to  him,  and  with  all  his 
longing  he  was  unable  to  answer. 

The  next  few  weeks  were  passed  by  the  two  awaiting 

177 


DRIFT 

the  birth  of  their  child,  in  a  silent  misery  of  apprehen- 
sion: Eileen  of  the  imemdiate  ordeal,  John  of  the  years 
ahead.  Eileen  thought  of  Victoria,  of  her  screams  of 
pain,  her  refusal  to  see  the  child;  yet  it  was  not  the 
physical  pain  that  she  feared,  it  was  something  deeper, 
something  that  had  to  do  with  her  wondering  as  a  girl, 
with  the  strange  passivity  and  lack  of  joy  of  her  early 
married  life. 

The  doctor  was  not  encouraging.  He  reported  to 
John  that  Eileen's  physical  condition  was  satisfactory, 
but  confessed  his  failure  to  reach  or  eradicate  the  cause 
of  her  depression. 

Finally  came  the  trip  into  town  to  the  hospital,  the 
preparations,  the  days  of  waiting.  Of  the  actual  birth 
Eileen  knew  little.  All  she  could  remember  afterwards 
was  a  confused  impression  of  people  in  white  and  a 
sickly  sweet  smell  that  seemed  to  alternate  with  racking 
distress.  She  thought  she  was  not  like  Victoria;  she 
wanted  to  see  the  child,  wanted  to  hold  it  in  her  arms. 

After  what  seemed  a  long  time  she  opened  her  eyes 
on  the  bare  hospital  room.  John  and  the  nurse  were 
near.  "Was  it  over,  she  asked,  and  they  told  her 
yes.  The  doctor  was  sitting  beside  the  bed.  He  rose 
as  she  spoke  and  went  away.    John  leaned  over  her. 

1  *  Try  and  be  brave,  dear, ' '  he  said,  and  his  face  looked 
strange.  "We  have  no  child  now,  we  must  be  good 
to  each  other.' '  In  answer  to  her  weak  "tell  me!" 
he  added,  "It  was  a  boy  and  perfect,  but  it  did  not 
breathe.  Oh,  I  wish,  I  wish  he  had  lived  just  a  moment — 
my  son!"  Then  he  bent  his  head  and  held  her  hand 
against  his  cheek  and  was  silent.  Eileen  turned  her  face 
away.  She  wanted  to  say  something  to  John,  but  she 
could  not.  All  these  months  of  horror  and  distress 
for  this, — they  had  no  child,  John  had  said.  Perhaps 
it  was  her  fault.  In  a  great  pity  for  him  she  reached 
out  her  other  hand  and  stroked  his  forehead.    He  lifted 

178 


DRIFT 

his  face  and  tried  to  smile.  For  a  moment  they  seemed 
to  find  each  other ;  then  the  sick  weakness  came  over  her, 
her  hands  relaxed  in  his  grasp  and  she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  it  had  grown  dark ;  she  could  see  the 
lights  from  the  street  dancing  on  the  ceiling.  John  was 
sitting  by  her,  his  hand  upon  the  bed.  " Where  is  it?" 
she  said,  "the  baby?" 

John  got  up  and  said  something  to  the  nurse  who  was 
standing  by  the  window.  She  went  out  very  quietly 
and  came  back  in  a  moment  with  something  in 
her  arms.  Eileen  looked  at  the  tiny,  tiny  face.  She 
wanted  to  touch  it,  but  she  was  afraid.  She  looked  at 
the  nurse  and  then  at  John  for  explanation ;  why  was  it 
dead?  She  could  not  seem  to  understand.  Often  she 
had  thought  that  she  might  die,  but  she  had  never 
thought  the  baby  would  be  like  this.  Victoria's  baby 
had  lived,  why  did  hers  die?  Why  did  they  not  tell 
her  how  it  had  happened,  what  was  wrong?  Mutely 
she  looked  at  them,  too  weak  to  frame  her  questions  into 
words. 

"Aren't  you  glad  he  is  so  perfect?"  the  nurse  asked, 
uncovering  the  tiny  body,  and  then  she  heard  John's 
voice,  as  one  hears  in  a  dream — ' '  See,  dear,  we  have  had 
a  son — that  is  much,  isn't  it?" 

The  terrible  weakness  came  over  her,  she  closed  her 
eyes,  she  could  not  look.  They  took  the  dead  child 
away  then  and  she  did  not  see  it  again.  Later  on  they 
explained  to  her  that  the  heart  was  defective,  it  could 
not  breathe,  but  that  did  not  make  it  any  easier  for  her 
to  understand. 

For  weeks  afterwards  she  lay  in  a  peculiar  stupor, 
speaking  little,  a  vague  wonder  in  her  heart  that  such 
things  could  be.  Finally  John  took  her  home ;  the  doctor 
had  said  it  would  be  best.  She  looked  around  the  luxuri- 
ous, familiar  rooms  in  a  curious  way  as  if  to  ask  why  all 
these  things  remained  the  same. 

179 


DRIFT 

She  had  wanted  to  go  home,  wanted  to  leave  the 
dreary  hospital,  where  everything  was  so  ugly ;  but  now 
that  she  was  at  home,  it  was  hard  to  rouse  herself,  hard 
to  make  an  effort ;  almost  she  wished  herself  back  again 
in  that  quiet  room  with  the  white-clad,  softly  moving 
nurse.  Every  day  there  were  notes  and  flowers  and 
kind  expressions  of  sympathy  and  interest,  as  there  had 
been  at  the  hospital.  People  came  to  see  her.  She  would 
talk  to  them  graciously,  but  with  a  feeling  that  they 
were  very  far  away ;  they  could  not  understand. 

Aunt  Emma  sought  to  break  through  the  barrier  of 
misery  which  seemed  to  isolate  Eileen  from  all  around 
her. 

"My  child,  it  wrings  my  heart  to  see  you  so  un- 
happy. What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  Is  there  anything  you 
will  let  me  do ;  I  wish  that  I  could,  I  wish  it  so  earnestly. 
You  know  that,  don't  you,  dear?" 

Eileen  put  out  her  hand  to  take  Aunt  Emma's  and 
hold  it  in  both  of  hers.  "Oh  Auntie  dear,  Auntie 
dear,"  she  said,  "I  know  you  would  if  you  could,  but 
no  one  can  do  anything  for  me,  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter.  I  just  don't  seem  to  want  anything  any 
more." 

Aunt  Emma  went  away  greatly  troubled.  She  and 
John  had  anxious  consultations.  Eileen  seemed  slip- 
ping away  from  them,  they  could  not  reach  her.  She 
was  always  gentle,  but  so  listless  that  even  to  make 
responses  to  their  questions  seemed  an  effort. 

John  remembered  the  afternoon  he  had  found  her 
crying  with  fear  that  she  was  to  have  a  child,  remem- 
bered her  cry  of  thankfulness  when  she  knew  it  was  not 
to  be.  This  time,  when  she  first  knew,  she  had  accepted 
it  without  protest,  but  without  joy.  John  had  been 
afraid  to  let  her  know  that  he  was  glad.  Then  all  those 
months  of  distress  had  come,  with  the  dreadful  ending 

180 


DEIPT 

of  that  little,  tiny,  dead  face.  His  heart  was  wrung  for 
her,  but  he  seemed  helpless  to  give  her  any  comfort. 
Her  efforts  to  smile  and  talk  because  she  thought  it 
gave  him  pleasure  were  pitiful  to  him  beyond  words. 

One  day  she  said  to  him,  "It  is  just  as  if  I  were  in 
a  boat,  a  little  boat  drifting  far,  far  out  to  sea.  I  can 
hear  people  calling  to  me  from  the  shore,  I  can  see  them 
reaching  out  their  hands  to  me,  but  I  cannot  answer, 
cannot  turn  my  boat,  I  must  go  further  and  further.' ' 

As  the  weeks  grew  into  months  and  she  seemed  little 
better,  John  consulted  various  specialists,  who  could 
give  him  only  vaguely  encouraging  words  that  when  her 
physical  strength  came  back  she  would  become  happier. 
Aunt  Emma  came  and  went ;  Eileen  was  always  gentle, 
but  never  asked  her  to  stay  longer.  There  seemed  no 
one  who  could  understand  what  was  the  trouble.  She 
turned  to  John  for  help  as  a  child  turns  to  someone 
stronger  than  itself.  Her  need  of  him  was  precious  to 
him,  and  he  watched  over  her  with  profound  solicitude. 

Slowly  she  gained  strength.  They  travelled  for  some 
months  and  then  returned  home  to  take  up,  if  possible, 
their  life  of  the  winter  in  New  York.  As  the  vessel 
neared  port,  Eileen  seemed  happier  than  for  a  long 
time.  She  was  eager,  she  said,  to  get  home  to  see  all 
the  good  friends. 

John  watched  her  anxiously,  fearing  for  her  strength, 
but  she  entered  into  the  city's  activities  with  much  of 
her  old  zest,  and  he  was  glad  of  her  interest.  The 
situation  between  them,  as  in  those  first  days  after  their 
marriage,  was  held  in  a  suspended  state.  Each  knew 
there  must  sometime  come  a  readjustment,  each  feared 
to  disturb  the  comparative  serenity  of  their  friendliness 
by  intimate  talk  which  might  reveal  the  impossibility 
of  deeper  things.  In  the  solitude  of  his  own  heart, 
John  had  given  up  any  thought  of  children  in  the 
future.    Eileen  could  not  bear  the  strain;  he  could  not 

181 


DRIFT 

ask  it  of  her.  And  she?  What  did  she  wisfc?  She 
did  not  know. 

Once,  soon  after  her  return  from  the  hospital,  she 
had  told  him  that  she  would  rather  die  than  live  over 
again  the  months  just  passed,  and  he  believed  her. 

As  the  many  occupations  each  sought  claimed  them 
more  and  more,  the  dependence  on  each  other  which  had 
grown  during  their  days  of  travelling  lessened;  some- 
times days  would  pass  with  only  a  few  words. 

John  had  his  own  rooms,  for  Eileen  read  much  at 
night,  and  would  often  sleep  during  the  forenoon. 
Neither  of  them  quite  knew  how  it  was,  that  they  be- 
came more  and  more  formal  in  their  relations  to  each 
other.  Sometimes  one  or  the  other  would  make  an  effort 
to  break  the  distance.  There  would  be  tenderness,  an 
approach  to  intimacy,  promises  that  they  would  try  and 
be  more  together,  but  underneath,  each  knew  that  the 
distance  between  them  was  growing  wider,  too  wide 
for  hope  of  bridging. 

Outwardly  all  was  well ;  Mrs.  Templeton,  after  one  or 
two  unsuccessful  efforts  to  talk  with  John,  realised  that 
she  was  helpless.  She  was  unfailing  in  her  kindness 
to  Eileen,  but  she  could  never  rid  herself  of  a  sense  of 
being  baffled  by  the  life  Eileen  lived.  It  was  so  full  of 
people,  interesting  people  of  course;  Eileen  tolerated 
no  one  who  did  not  contribute  some  originality  of 
viewpoint  or  achievement,  but  the  older  woman  won- 
dered when  there  was  time  for  hours  alone,  for  thought 
for  John. 

John  and  Eileen  had  been  married  for  five  years. 
They  lived  in  the  same  house,  they  went  out  to  dinner 
in  the  same  motor;  returning,  they  exchanged  a  few 
words  as  to  what  had  occurred  during  the  day,  and 
bade  each  other  good-night. 

What  were  their  thoughts?  Since  the  threatened 
strike,  John  had  been  more  and  more  involved  in  ques- 

182 


DRIFT 

tions  concerning  the  never-ending  struggle.  He  was 
determined,  if  he  could,  to  establish  before  he  died  a 
relationship  between  him  and  his  employees  that  rested 
on  mutual  trust  and  not  on  hostility.  The  profit-sharing 
plan  was  now  in  operation;  it  remained  to  be  seen  how 
successfully.  At  times  he  became  profoundly  discour- 
aged, but  he  had  set  himself  the  task,  he  would  not 
relinquish  it.  He  instigated  various  bills  looking  to- 
wards factory  inspection  and  regulation  of  hours  and 
made  frequent  trips  to  Albany,  there  to  await  the  pleas- 
ure of  haughty  or  indifferent  state  legislators.  On  his 
return  from  such  trips  and  from  the  investigation  and 
inspection  that  he  did  personally  of  various  factories, 
the  house  he  lived  in,  the  number  of  obsequious,  idle, 
men-servants,  the  luxurious  daintiness  of  it  all  were 
intolerable.  The  very  bareness  and  restraint  in  the 
furnishing  of  the  house  irritated  him,  it  was  such  costly 
restraint ! 

Often  he  would  send  word  that  he  would  not  be  at 
home  and  spend  the  night  at  one  of  his  clubs  or  at  his 
mother's  house.  He  did  not  attempt  any  change  in  their 
manner  of  life ;  he  could  not  think  of  Eileen  without  the 
surroundings  which  seemed  necessary  to  her.  She  had 
a  right  to  it  all  if  she  wished.  If  thoughts  of  their 
parting  came  to  him  he  put  them  away.  Eileen  needed 
his  care.  She  seemed  to  him  a  beautiful,  unreal  being 
who  must  be  cherished. 

And  Eileen?  She  went  her  way,  petted  and  adored 
by  those  among  whom  she  moved,  languid,  lovely.  She 
too  accepted  the  strangeness  of  their  life  and  found 
her  own  occupations. 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ONE  summer  evening  John  Templeton  was  smoking  a 
cigar  on  the  deck  of  a  boat,which  he  had  taken 
in  preference  to  a  July  night  on  a  sleeping  car.  Even 
on  the  water  the  heat  was  oppressive  and  the  number 
of  shrill-voiced  tugs  and  vessels  darting  busily  about 
the  harbour  seemed  to  accentuate  the  air  of  incessant 
and  wearisome  activity  of  the  great  city  he  had  longed 
for  a  little  to  escape.  John  watched  the  tall  buildings 
as  they  slowly  melted  together,  forming  a  jagged  out- 
line against  the  sky.  Lights  were  gleaming  out  here 
and  there  through  the  dusk.  Even  at  close  of  day  there 
were  millions  still  at  work,  high  up  in  their  warrens, 
while  millions  more  were  hurrying  homeward  to  eat 
and  sleep  and  then,  hurrying  back  to  begin  it  over 
again.  What  was  it  all  about !  "Why  did  everyone  work 
like  that  ?  He  too  had  been  intent  all  day ;  now  he  was 
very  tired. 

A  sense  of  lassitude  and  weariness  took  possession  of 
his  spirit.  Drawing  a  chair  to  the  railing  he  sat  down 
to  watch  the  engulfing  into  the  mist  of  the  great  build- 
ings which  represented  to  him  his  day's  toll  of  work. 
He  asked  himself  whether  it  was  worth  while,  what  he 
was  doing  it  for?  Clearly  came  the  answer, — he  was 
making  himself  exhausted  every  day  that  he  might  for- 
get the  needs  that  beset  him  when  his  mind  was  released 
from  work,  that  he  might  be  glad  for  rest,  asking  noth- 
ing further. 

187 


DRIFT 

Well,  and  what  if  that  were  true ;  what  then  ?  Prob- 
ably most  of  the  others  working  over  there  with  such 
daily  expenditure  of  force  were  doing  the  same 
thing.  He  seemed  to  have^  missed  out,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  about  it,  at  present  at  least ;  he  saw 
no  course  that  he  definitely  wished  to  follow.  Having 
faced  his  difficulty  and  found  no  solution,  he  turned 
his  thoughts  away.  After  all,  the  work  itself  was  tre- 
mendously interesting.  His  mind  took  up  certain  un- 
satisfactory points  in  the  bill  known  as  the  ''Ten  Hour 
Law"  recently  passed  in  Albany.  It  must  be  amended, 
there  was  much  to  be  done  in  the  next  two  years,  but 
it  was  something  to  have  gotten  it  through  against  such 
opposition.  The  world  and  its  clamouring  needs  encom- 
passed him,  and  he  forgot  his  trouble. 

It  had  grown  almost  dark.  Tlje  boats  about  grew 
fewer,  the  noises  more  hushed  and  distant.  Soon  the 
lights  of  the  city  would  be  gone  and  perhaps  the  light 
of  the  stars  would  come  down.  It  was  too  hot  to  go 
below.  He  lighted  another  cigar,  thinking  that  he  would 
spend  most  of  the  night  on  deck. 

After  a  little  he  became  conscious  that  someone  was 
standing  near  him,  leaning  on  the  rail,  looking  out  as  he 
had  done  at  the  beauty  of  sea  and  sky.  Seeing  that  the 
figure  was  a  woman,  he  rose  to  offer  his  chair. 

"Oh,"  said  a  clear  voice,  "it's  Mr.  Templeton." 

John  was  disconcerted.  Something  about  her  was 
familiar,  but  his  recollection  went  no  further.  He  took 
off  his  hat  with  a  bewildered  smile. 

"You  don't  remember  me,"  she  said,  "I  testified 
before  the  Wages  Commission.  You  were  on  the  com- 
mittee, and  you  asked  me  questions." 

"Why  of  course,  I  remember  you,"  he  said.  "It  is 
Miss  Whin,  isn't  it?"  He  held  out  his  hand,  looking  at 
her  with  interest.  The  story  she  had  told  came  back 
to  him  vividly.    He  had  been  struck  with  the  courage 

188 


DRIFT 

and  simplicity  of  the  girl,  Margaret  Whin  by  name,  as 
she  had  told  just  how  she  lived,  what  wages  she  had 
earned,  what  she  wanted  and  could  not  have  if  she  "kept 
straight/'  to  the  five  grave  men  who  had  formed  the 
committee  of  the  Wages  Commission.  Something  in 
him  was  quickened  and  interested. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  said.  "Wait  and  I  will  get 
another  chair."  He  disappeared,  and  Margaret  Whin 
returned  to  her  contemplation  of  the  scene  before  her. 
As  she  stood  in  her  simple  dress  there  was  something 
about  her  that  would  have  delighted  a  sculptor.  She  was 
a  tall  woman,  strongly  built.  Her  face  was  broad,  with 
grey  eyes  set  wide  apart,  her  skin  very  fair  with  colour 
Ion  the  high  cheek  bones.  Her  mouth  was  large  and  full, 
the  upper  lip  short.  She  moved  with  the  free,  big  grace 
of  a  woman  of  the  soil.  On  her  brow  there  rested  a 
serene  tranquillity.  Her  face  had  the  calm  of  a  placid 
lake  in  which  one  might  discern  the  reflection  of  storm- 
tossed  clouds.  Once,  when  she  had  applied  for  a  posi- 
tion, and  was  waiting  outside,  she  heard  her  prospective 
employer  remark,  "What  a  splendid-looking  creature! 
I  hope  she  is  as  competent  as  she  looks."  The  compli- 
ment had  proved  a  helpful  stimulus  in  hours  of  dis- 
couragement. 

"I  remember  you  very  well  indeed,"  John  told  her 
as  he  reappeared.  "Perhaps  we  can  talk  a  little  now, 
with  more  time.  I'd  like  to  hear  more  about  you,  for 
I  recall  perfectly  what  you  told  us.  You  said  you 
would  a  great  deal  rather  have  a  home  of  your  own  than 
work  for  your  living,  but  that  you  wanted  the  right 
kind  of  a  home?    Was  that  it?" 

"Exactly,"  she  assented  with  a  pleased,  bright  look; 
"didn't  all  the  others  say  the  same  thing?  Wouldn't 
anybody?" 

"No,  they  didn't,"  John  smiled,  as  he  recalled  some 
of  the  other  girls  that  the  committee  had  questioned, 

189 


DRIFT 

"not  by  any  means!  I  wanted  to  ask  you  then  just 
what  you  meant  by  the  'right  kind  of  a  home. '  I  wanted 
to  hear  your  definition,  I  mean." 

"Why,  it  isn't  very  hard  to  imagine,  is  it?"  She 
seemed  to  think  him  a  little  slow  of  comprehension.  "I 
suppose  I  meant  I  didn't  want  the  kind  of  thing — well, 
that  some  of  my  friends  have  got.  I'd  rather  be  as 
I  am." 

"I  see,"  said  John,  "you  are  afraid  of  an  unhappy 
marriage."  His  own  words  surprised  him.  They  were 
too  close  to  his  thoughts,  he  had  not  meant  to  be  so 
blunt.    To  his  relief  Margaret  laughed. 

"I  suppose  that's  it,"  she  said,  "but  'unhappy'  is 
rather  a  big  word.  The  people  I'm  thinking  of  aren't 
that  exactly,  they're  just — forlorn.  They  fuss  a  good 
deal  about  little  things,  and  bother  each  other." 

She  was  silent  a  moment  and  then  added.  "I've 
thought  about  marriage,  and  the  idea  I  have  isn't  like 
that." 

Her  face  was  grave,  and  John  found  that  he  had  a 
strong  desire  to  hear  what  this  working  girl  had  thought 
about  marriage.  She  had  said  frankly  that  she  wanted 
her  own  home;  what  was  the  reason  she  hadn't  obtained 
it?  Her  friends  "fussed  a  good  deal  and  bothered 
each  other,"  was  that  the  real  deterrent?  He  had  a 
passing  feeling  of  thankfulness  that  he  and  Eileen 
didn't  do  that. 

"I'm  interested  to  know  what  you  have  thought," 
he  said.  "Marriage  is  the  most  important  thing  in  most 
people's  lives,  I  imagine.  Can  you  formulate  your 
conclusions  into  words?" 

Margaret's  laugh  rang  out,  then  she  looked  at  him 
smiling.     "That  sounds  like  the  committee,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  I  am  pretty  solemn,"  John  smiled  back 
at  her,  "but  you  see  I  am  very  much  interested,  more 
so  than  you  are,  it  would  seem." 

190 


DEIPT 

His  rueful  tone  made  her  grave.  "Oh,  I'm  serious 
enough  about  it,"  she  said,  "and  I  can't  'formulate  my 
conclusions'  quite  easily."  A  little  smile  crossed  her 
lips  as  she  repeated  his  phrase,  "only,  I'm  quite  used 
to  my  own  thoughts,  and  I'm  not  to. — all  this."  She 
waved  her  hand.  "It  is  so  lovely,  it  makes  me  happy, 
and  this  is  the  first  night  of  my  vacation.  That  is  why 
I  laughed,  I  guess.    I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude." 

"You  weren't  rude."  John  had  been  glad  of  her 
gay  laugh,  and  he  was  startled  to  find  he  had  had  no 
answering  lightness  for  her  reassurance.  "It  was  I  who 
was  over-grave.  Consider  me  as  a  committee  member, 
or  simply  as  a  human  being  interested  in  what  another 
human  being  has  thought  about  a  very  important  sub- 
ject, a  subject  about  which  everyone  is,  must  be,  deeply 
concerned."  Again  his  words  seemed  to  him  a  betrayal 
of  his  thoughts,  and  his  phraseology  clumsy. 

Margaret  waited  a  little,  then  she  said,  "When  I  told 
the  committee  I  wanted  the  'right  kind  of  a  home*  I 
suppose  I  might  as  well  have  said  the  right  kind  of  a 
man.  I  think  that  is  what  I  meant,  but  it  is  rather 
hard  to  talk  about  yourself  to  a  committee." 

"I  should  imagine  so,"  John  replied.  "I  thought  it 
was  fine  in  you  to  speak  as  you  did." 

"Why,  'fine'?"    She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Why,  to  be  so  frank  about  saying  you  wanted  your 
own  home,  wanted  to  be  married, — I  liked  your  saying 
it  as  you  did." 

Margaret  turned  and  looked  at  him  again.  She 
seemed  to  have  difficulty  in  understanding  his  point  of 
view.     "I  didn't  say  exactly  that,  did  I?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  you  made  qualifications,"  he  said.  "But  I 
gathered  that  you  did  want  the  'right  kind  of  a  home'." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  do.  Isn't  it  lovely  over  there? 
We  oughtn't  to  be  thinking  of  anything  else."  She 
pointed  towards  the  distant  harbour  as  if  the  facts  con- 

191 


DEIFT 

cerning  herself  were  now  disposed  of,  and  attention 
could  be  turned  to  other  things. 

It  was  Templeton's  turn  to  feel  that  he  had  perhaps 
spoken  too  lightly,  or  what  was  more  probable,  pushed 
his  questioning  further  than  she  wished.  "Very  lovely," 
he  assented.  "I  have  been  sitting  here  watching  it,  but 
I  wasn't  thinking  altogether  of  the  beauty.  You  told 
the  committee,  I  remember,  that  you  had  been  working 
since  you  were  sixteen.  I  work  fairly  hard  in  my  own 
way,  so  do  millions  of  others.  I  was  watching  the 
lights  in  the  office  building,  thinking  of  the  people  in 
them,  wondering  why  we  all  worked  so  hard,  what  it 
was  all  for.  One  gets  moods  like  that;  I  suppose  it's  a 
symptom  that  one  needs  a  holiday." 

"Is  it?"  she  said.  "I  think  that  almost  every  night, 
only  I  try  not  to.    It's  so  silly!" 

"Very  silly,"  he  assented,  and  silence  fell. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  "I  ought  not 
to  have  spoken  like  that, — said  it  was  silly,  I  mean.  I 
have  to  be  cross  with  myself  when  I  think  like  that,  so 
it  slipped  out.    You  see  how  it  is?" 

John  laughed  as  she  turned  to  him.  It  was  curious 
how  their  little  apologies  seemed  to  advance  their  ac- 
quaintance. It  was  as  if  each  felt  the  need  of  being  on 
guard,  and  regretted  the  necessity.  "  I  do  see, ' '  he  said. 
"Haven't  we  all  to  be  'cross  with  ourselves'  when  we  slip 
a  cog?  It's  the  only  way  to  get  on.  Now  I'm  going 
to  ask  you  a  direct  question,  and  please  answer  me 
frankly.  Would  you  rather  that  I  put  to  you  no  further 
questions  about  yourself,  and  what  you  think,  I  mean  ? ' ' 

She  stared  at  this.  "Why  no,"  she  said,  "what  made 
you  think  so?" 

"You  turned  the  conversation  rather  abruptly  to  the 

view,  you  know,"  he  said. 

' '  Did  I  ? "  Margaret  was  evidently  puzzled.    ' '  But  I  'd 

192 


DRIFT 

love  to  tell  you  anything  you'd  like  to  ask.  I  didn't 
know  there  was  anything  more." 

"Then  may  I  remind  you  that  you  were  going  to 
tell  me  what  you  thought  about  marriage?"  Again 
there  was  a  short  silence.  The  question  had  been  put 
gravely.  It  seemed  to  carry  more  meaning  than  the 
words  implied. 

"I  suppose  I've  only  thought  about  it  in  relation  to 
myself,"  Margaret  said.  "I  haven't  any  ideas  about 
marriage  in  general." 

"Well,  that's  the  way  most  people  think  of  it,  I 
imagine,"  John  put  in.  "What  have  you  thought  about 
it  'in  relation  to  yourself?" 

Margaret  waited  to  answer.  She  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  put  it  clearly  without  too  intimate  a  confession. 
He  felt  that  he  had  forced  some  kind  of  a  reply,  that 
she  was  troubled,  but  that  at  heart  she  was  not  un- 
willing to  tell  him  what  she  thought. 

"What  I  told  the  committee  was  true  enough,"  she 
said.  "I  get  awfully  tired  of  working,  but  I  don't  want 
to  marry  anyone  I  have  ever  seen  yet, — don't  want  to  be 
with  them,  I  mean,  and,— -you  see, — the  kind  of  men  I 
like, — well  they  wouldn  't  think  of  marrying  me,  so  there 
you  are ! ' '  She  ended  with  a  laugh,  but  her  voice  was 
not  quite  steady.  The  admission  had  not  been  easy  for 
her  to  make,  and  he  divined  that  it  held  more  of  pain 
than  the  quiet  words  betrayed. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  he  said  after  a  little. 
"It's  rather  odd,  I  think,  for  you  to  see  your  own  situa- 
tion so  clearly,  analyse  it  as  you  do.  I  can  imagine  just 
what  you  mean.    You  are  sure  I  am  not  troubling  you  ? ' ' 

"  Oh  no, "  she  said,  and  her  face  was  lighted  again  by 
her  quick  smile,  "no,  indeed." 

"Because  you  see,"  he  went  on,  "I  didn't  nearly 
finish  my  questions  that  day.   I  'd  like  to  go  on.  May  I  ? " 

193 


DRIFT 

"  Certainly/ '  she  said.  "It's  kind  of  you  to  take  an 
interest.    What  do  you  want  to  know  ? ' ' 

John  found  himself  a  little  embarrassed  as  she  waited 
for  him  to  speak.  There  was  so  much  he  wanted  to 
know  about  this  beautiful,  frank  woman  he  had  met 
under  such  unusual  circumstances.  He  had  often 
thought  of  the  story  she  had  told  the  committee,  with 
wonder  as  to  how  she  had  fared. 

Margaret  seemed  to  comprehend  his  difficulty.  "You 
were  surprised  that  I  had  analysed  my  situation  so 
clearly  ?"  she  said.  "I've  had  plenty  of  time  to.  I'm 
twenty-eight;  I've  been  working  twelve  years.  As  I 
told  the  committee,  I  get  seventy-five  dollars  a  month. 
I've  got  a  room  that  is  fixed  up  the  way  I  like  it  in  a 
boarding-house  on  Twenty-second  Street,  and  a  little 
bed-room  off.  It's  got  a  nice  view,  I  can  see  the  river. 
I  like  my  room.  I  have  good  meals  every  day,  and 
warm  clothes,  but  you  see  those  things  don't  begin  to  be 
enough,  not  anywhere  near  enough.  There's  no  harm 
in  saying  so,  is  there?" 

"No  harm  at  all,"  John  assured  her,  "the  lack  is 
universal.    What  else  do  you  want?" 

Margaret  laughed.  "Well,  do  you  know,  as  I  look 
back  over  these  twelve  years,  it  seems  to  me  so  queer — 
how  I've  changed,  I  mean,  the  things  I  used  to  want, 
want  so  hard,  kid-wants  you  know — my,  but  they  used 
to  loom  up  big  and  important, — dresses  and  automobiles 
and  opera  tickets, — I  wanted  them  with  such  an  ache  I 
couldn't  bear  it.  Do  you  know  what  cured  me,  made  me 
see,  I  mean,  there  was  only  a  part  of  me  wanted  those 
things?  Well,  I  could  have  had  'em,  yes  I  could.  He 
wanted  to  marry  me,  he'd  give  me  a  *  handsome  house' 
he  said,  and  I  dare  say  he  would  have.  I  tried  to,  I'm 
not  ashamed  to  say  I  tried  to  hard,  but  something  in  me 
wouldn't.  All  at  once  it  seemed  to  me  those  weren't 
what  I  wanted,  really  and  truly.  It  was  so  funny !  After 

194 


DRIFT 

that  I  could  go  by  the  big  windows  without  noticing 
hardly  what  was  there.  If  I  did  stop  I  'd  think  I  could 
have  had  it,  yes  I  could,  if  it  had  only  been — well- 
decent,  and  then  I'd  go  back  to  my  room  and  cry  my 
eyes  out,  I  couldn't  have  told  what  for." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'decent'?"  John  asked.  "You 
said  he  wanted  to  marry  you." 

"Yes,  I  know;  he  was  straight  all  right,  according 
to  the  way  he  felt ;  he  was  a  nice  person  I  guess,  but — 
oh,  don't  you  see,  it  wouldn't  have  been  decent  to  take 
all  that  when  I  just — liked  him.  He  wanted,  well — 
everything.    I  couldn't,  I  couldn't!" 

"I  see,"  said  John.    "What  do  you  want  now?" 

"Why,  what  everybody  wants!  You  say  it  is  uni- 
versal, and  then  you  ask  me  again  and  again?  You 
remembered  what  I  said.  I  liked  your  remembering 
because — oh  well,  I  guess  it  isn't  very  important  any- 
way! I  manage  to  get  along  all  right.  There's  lots 
worse  off." 

"Please  forgive  my  insistence."  John  was  concerned. 
"I  suppose  I  asked  you  again  because  to  me,  wanting 
what  you  do  want  seems  very  wonderful.  Tell  me,  do  you 
find  the  fact  of  others  being  worse  off  consoling?"  The 
words  conveyed  to  her  that  he  had  not. 

"No,"  she  said,  "but  it  helps.  You  see  I've  been 
worse  off  myself,  so  I  only  have  to  look  back.  I  used 
to  spend  a  lot  of  time  having  the  blues,  but  now  I  don't. 
I've  learned  not  to." 

"You  seem  to  have  learned  some  valuable  lessons  in 
your  twenty-eight  years.  You  might  pass  that  one  on." 
John  was  aware  that  he  too  was  making  revelations, 
but  this  time  he  added  no  generalisation  to  explain. 
He  wanted  her  to  know  what  he  thought,  what  he  had 
felt. 

"I'm  not  sure  I  can,"  she  said,  "it's  a  recipe  of  my 
own.    It  seems  to  me  it  is  ugly,  wasteful,  senseless  to 

195 


DRIFT 

be  gloomy.  I  can't  explain  it  very  well,  but  I  thought 
if  I  kept  happy,  that  would  be  a  kind  of  beauty  I  could 
make.  I  can't  make  any  other  kind  of  course.  I'm 
afraid  I'm  not  very  clear,  but  that's  the  way  I've 
thought  it  out.  And  then,  besides,  if  you're  blue,  you 
have  such  a  perfectly  horrid  time  yourself." 

"The  last  is  true  enough,"  John  observed,  "but  I'm 
not  sure  your  remedy  is  applicable  for  other  people. 
I'll  try  and  remember  it.  Tell  me,  what  do  you  do  in 
the  evenings?" 

"There's  lectures,"  she  answered.  "I  go  to  them 
sometimes,  but  they're  pretty  dry.  Then  Friday  nights 
there's  the  concerts.  They're  nice  if  I  had  somebody  to 
go  with.  You  really  can't  enjoy  music  alone,  can  you? 
And  of  course  there's  reading." 

"And  do  these  things, — concerts  and  lectures, — give 
you  real  pleasure?" 

"Of  course  they  do,  or  why  should  I  go  to  them?" 
She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  thought  he  was  a  little,  just 
a  little,  slow.  ' '  Then  there 's  the  library.  I  like  to  look 
at  the  big  books  on  art  and  read  about  how  cathedrals 
were  built,  and  things  like  that.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  it  makes  me  forget  the  horrid  things  that  happen  at 
the  office  every  day,  only  I  never  have  anybody  to  talk 
to  about  it  with  afterwards  and  I'd  like  to.  I  guess 
that's  why  I'm  talking  like  this  to  you  now."  And 
again  the  sudden  bright  smile  came  across  her  face  as 
she  looked  up  at  him. 

iWith  a  word  that  he  would  return  shortly,  John 
walked  along  the  deck.  He  wanted  a  moment  alone  to 
ask  himself  what  was  stirring  within  him,  what  it  meant. 
The  girl's  words  moved  him  profoundly.  Was  she  beau- 
tiful? Not  regularly  so,  only  strong  and  sweet  and 
serene,  with  ruddy  hair  and  clear  eyes.  So  much  he  had 
taken  in,  and  according  to  her  own  confession,  in  spite 
of  her  "cure  for  the  blues,"  she  was  lonely.    She  had 

196 


DRIFT 

spoken  of  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  she  would  have 
spoken  of  the  colour  of  the  sky  or  the  scene  around  them, 
making  no  appeal  for  sympathy,  yet  the  appeal  had 
come  to  him  with  such  intensity  that  he  was  trembling. 
He  wanted  to  go  back  and  ask  her  more  about  herself, 
but  first  he  must  answer  the  question,  what  would  hap- 
pen were  he  to  do  so? 

He  could  no  longer  see  the  lights  of  the  city — those 
lights  that  had  a  short  time  since  represented  to  him 
weariness  of  spirit,  profound  dissatisfaction.  Where  was 
his  lassitude  now,  his  sense  of  the  futility  of  all  things? 
It  was  gone,  dispelled  by  the  magic  of  a  clear  voice 
speaking  simply  of  real  things.  He  was  alive,  eager, 
wanting  her,  hungry  for  the  stimulus  she  gave.  He 
remembered  the  hour  of  his  renunciation  as  a  boy  in 
Dresden,  remembered  the  hour  in  the  train  coming  back 
from  New  York  after  the  threatened  strike  When  he  told 
himself  that  that  renunciation  had  been  wrong;  now — 
now — he  would  take  what  he  desired!  In  his  soul  rang 
a  great  shout  of  exultation, — not  again  should  he  be 
defrauded — he  was  free.  He  swung  around  and  walked 
rapidly  back. 

"I  want  to  know  more  about  you,  yourself,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  lifted.  "It  seems  very  wonderful  to  have 
that  said  to  me. ' '  John  realised  that  her  voice  trembled. 
"You  see,  I  don't  know  anybody  that  I  want  to  talk  to, 
I  mean  that  I  'd  want  to  have  say  anything  like  that  to 
me,  because  there 'd  be  no  use.  If  you  try  and  tell  what 
you  think,  most  people  just  think  you're  queer.  Do  you 
know  how  it  is?" 

John  smiled.  "I  fancy  that  also  is  a  universal  ex- 
perience/ '  he  said.  "Most  people  soon  give  up  trying. 
I'm  glad  you  think  I  can  understand.  Please  go  on. 
Tell  me  what  you  think  about, — about  yourself,  about 
me  perhaps,  our  meeting  here  and  talking.  I  want  to 
hear  what  conclusions  you  have  come  to  about  life." 

197 


DRIFT 

"All  I've  had  time  to  think  about  you  is  that  you  are 
very  kind, ' '  she  said. 

" Isn't  that  enough  for  the  present ?"  John  asked 
her,  "or  shall  I  present  my  credentials  before  you  say 
any  more?  I'm  highly  respectable,  you  know,  as  far  as 
that  goes,  or  at  least  I'm  considered  so,  but  in  spite  of 
that,  I  dare  say  it  is  a  very  unwise  thing  for  you  to 
talk  to  me  as  you  are  doing,  or  rather  as  you  may  do  in 
answer  to  my  questions."  He  looked  at  her  directly, 
and  she  answered  his  gaze. 

After  a  moment  she  said,  "I'm  not  afraid."  He 
settled  himself  back  in  his  chair. 

"Then  go  on,"  he  bade  her,  "tell  me  all  about  it, 
how  you  came  to  be  working  here  alone,  where  your 
people  are,  I  want  all  of  it, — all  about  yourself." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  as  if  she  were  casting 
about  in  her  mind  where  to  begin  her  story,  and  then  it 
came,  quite  naturally.  It  was  usual, — a  girlhood  passed 
in  a  small  town  among  simple  people,  happily  enough, 
grammar  school,  two  years  of  "High,"  then  the  city  to 
seek  employment.  Dreary  months  as  a  shop  girl,  while 
shorthand  and  typewriting  were  acquired  at  a  night 
school.  Then  a  better  position,  forty  dollars  a  month  in 
an  office, — a  patent-medicine  company ;  from  there  pro- 
motion as  her  skill  increased,  until  now,  seventy-five  dol- 
lars a  month  secured  her  the  room  "fixed  up  as  she  liked 
it,  the  little  bedroom  off  and  three  good  meals  a  day," 
of  which  she  had  spoken.  The  recital  had  been  entirely 
objective,  not  a  hint  of  what  she  had  felt,  or  thought,  or 
longed  for  during  the  twelve  years  of  struggle.  John 
wondered  if  it  were  intentional,  or  only  that  his  demand 
had  recalled  to  her  his  former  position  on  the  Wages 
Commission,  and  she  had  so  interpreted  his  question. 
Well,  they  still  had  hours  before  them  and  perhaps 
others.    Let  her  tell  her  story  her  own  way.    It  was 

198 


DEIPT 

rather  fine, — her  keeping  the  outward  facts  entirely- 
separate. 

She  seemed  to  have  developed  some  views  on  the 
labour  question.  "Part  of  the  time  I  was  a  socialist/ ' 
she  said.  "When  I  saw  what  some  people  had  and  threw 
away  while  other  people  were  eating  their  hearts  out 
for  the  lack  of  something,  they  didn't  know  what,  but 
something  to  make  their  lives  less  like  hell,  I  got  bitter 
and  hard.  It  seemed  to  me  that  we  people  who  worked 
made  it  all.  I  couldn't  understand  why  we  shouldn't 
get  a  bigger  share.  That  was  about  the  time  I  used  to 
stare  in  shop  windows  and  ache  for  limousines.  I  got 
some  books  on  labour  at  the  library,  but  they  were 
pretty  hard  to  understand.  After  a  while  I  got  to 
thinking  differently.  I  saw  it  wasn't  the  work  that  was 
hard.  I  like  to  work,  it's  interesting;  but  there  ought  to 
be  something  more.  You  can  work  all  day  if  you  can 
look  forward  to  something  with  a  thrill  in  it  at  night, 
but  if  you  haven 't  got  that,  then  you  get  hard  and  want 
to  kill  anybody  who  looks  as  if  they  were  happier.  Ten 
to  one  they  aren't,  but  they  look  so.  Of  course  the  only 
thing  with  a  real  thrill  in  it  is  love — and  I  don't  mean 
by  that  kissing  'round  in  the  hallways  and  looking  silly, 
I  mean  wanting  to  give." 

She  stopped  and  gave  him  a  look  of  enquiry.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  said  more  than  she  meant  to  and  feared 
that  he  would  misinterpret. 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  "please  go 
on." 

"Well,  I  used  to  like  to  go  to  lectures  at  the  Poly- 
technic Institute,  though  I  haven't  been  lately.  I  was 
late  one  night  and  I  stopped  and  looked  at  that  long 
row  of  shabby  coats  and  hats  hanging  there  in  the  hall 
with  shabby  rubbers  lying  every  which  way  underneath, 
and  I  thought  to  myself,  'All  those  girls  in  there  listen- 
ing to  that  lecture,  the  way  I'm  going  to,  and  everyone 

199 


DRIFT 

of  them  just  aching  for  something  else, — something  they 
can't  get.  Some  of  'em  know  it  and  some  of  'em  don't, 
but  they're  all  alike  in  wanting.'  It  seemed  pitiful 
somehow.    I  couldn't  listen  after  I  got  inside." 

"And  was  that  what  you  were  thinking  all  that 
time?"  he  asked. 

She  repeated  his  question,  "  'Was  that  what  I  was 
thinking  of  all  that  time?'  No,  I  guess  not, — when  you 
are  young,  I  mean  when  you  are  twenty,  you  believe 
something's  surely  coming  your  way  if  you're  patient 
and  don't  fuss.  But  after  a  while  you  begin  to  get 
doubtful.    I  guess  that's  where  I  am  now." 

John  had  a  wish  that  she  would  not  talk  so  much  as 
if  he  were  merely  a  pair  of  ears  with  understanding 
enough  to  know  what  she  meant.  That  seemingly  was 
her  present  attitude  towards  him,  or  how  could  she  be 
so  free  from  self-consciousness  ?  It  did  not  seem  to  have 
occurred  to  her  that  what  she  "wanted"  was  there 
beside  her,  a  man,  lonely  like  herself,  like  herself  per- 
plexed by  the  necessity  of  being  alone.  As  yet  in  her 
mind  the  relief  of  speech  was  uppermost,  yet  John  knew 
that  she  would  not  have  spoken  as  she  had  spoken  had 
not  his  desire  reached  her,  touched  her.  He  could  un- 
derstand, as  her  story  went  on,  how  completely  she  had 
kept  herself  aloof  from  those  around  her.  She  had  pre- 
ferred her  isolation  to  the  only  companionship  available. 
Now  her  frankness  to  him  was  the  breaking  of  the  flood- 
gates. She  felt  his  wish  to  reach  her  thought,  and  her 
mind  and  soul  opened  to  him  with  perfect  sincerity. 

"You  said  you  were  twenty-eight,"  John  said  in 
'answer  to  her  last  bit  of  analysis.  "Too  soon  to  be 
doubtful,  isn't  it?  You  have  a  precious  possession  in 
strength.    Aren't  you  glad  of  that?" 

His  words  sounded  to  himself  extraordinarily  stupid, 
but  evidently  they  proved  illuminating  to  her. 

200 


DRIFT 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I'm  healthy  enough,  I  dare  say- 
that 's  part  of  the  trouble.  I'd  like  somebody  to  talk 
with,  somebody  that  I  liked  to  be  with,  you  know,  but 
then  there's  so  much  more.  I  wake  up  at  night  some- 
times and  think  I'd  do  almost  anything  rather  than 
just  stay  up  there  every  night  alone.  Oh,  I  don't  know 
what  I  mean,  it's  hard  trying  to  put  it  into  words.  I 
don't  think  it's  very  spiritual  or  anything  grand  like 
that,  it's  just  physical, — it  hurts,  and  then  I  think  it 
will  always  be  that  way,  year  after  year,  and  then  I 
want  to  die."  Her  voice  had  grown  very  low  and  con- 
tinued its  curiously  impersonal  tone.  It  seemed  as  if 
she  were  speaking  to  herself  rather  than  to  him,  and 
yet  he  knew  that  his  presence,  his  silent  and  absorbed 
attention,  were  precious  to  her,  were  what  she  needed, 
what  she  had  thirsted  for.  He  said  nothing  but  "yes" 
as  she  stopped,  and  in  a  moment  she  went  on. 

"I've  never  talked  about  these  things  before  to  any- 
body," she  said,  "because — well,  because  I  was  afraid. 
It's  so  terrible  to  hear  the  girls  chaffing  all  the  time 
about  fellows.  It  seems  to  be  all  mixed  up  with  candy 
and  theatres  and  getting  kissed.  The  only  way  is  to 
pretend  you  don 't  know  what  they  mean,  and  then  they 
hate  you,  but  they  let  you  alone." 

Again  John's  low,  "Yes,  I  think  I  can  understand," 
was  his  only  rejoinder. 

"That's  why  I  told  the  committee  I'd  rather  be  mar- 
ried than  be  in  an  office,"  she  added.  "It  sounded 
to  me  such  a  silly  thing  to  ,say,  as  if  anybody  wouldn't, 
only  I  couldn't  make  them  understand  exactly  what  I 
meant.  I  told  you  how  I  could  have  got  married  if  I'd 
wanted  to.  I've  thought  of  adopting  a  kiddy  from  the 
Orphan  Asylum,  only  I'd  have  to  be  away  all  day  and 
get  somebody  else  to  take  care  of  it.  Still,  it  would  be 
there  in  the  evening.  Only  it  wouldn't  be  mine.  It's 
one  of  my  own  I  want  so  terribly,  but  not  one  of  those 

201 


DEIFT 

forlorn,  dirty  little  tads  that  play  on  the  streets.  I  want 
a  child  that  would  be  straight  and  strong  and  fine.  It 
must  be  wonderful  to  show  a  child  things  that  you've 
wanted  and  struggled  for.  I'd  like  to  read  some  of  the 
things  I  've  found  to  a  little  thing  and  hear  what  it  said, 
watch  how  its  eyes  looked.  Do  you  know  what  I've 
thought  sometimes, — that  if  I  could  have  a  child  of  my 
own  to  love  and  take  care  of  and  hold  close,  I  wouldn't 
want  very  much  more.  I  saw  a  woman  wheeling  a  baby 
carriage  the  other  day.  She  stopped  at  the  door  of  a 
house  and  took  the  baby  up  in  her  arms,  and  do  you 
know  what  happened  to  me?  I  wanted  to  go  and  take 
it  from  her,  and  as  I  looked  I  felt  so  strangely.  I  couldn't 
look  at  the  woman  and  the  baby  any  more.  I've  felt 
differently  ever  since  that  day ;  it  seems  as  if  none  of  the 
things  I  used  to  do  meant  anything  to  me  any  more. 
And  there's  another  thing  I'll  have  to  tell.  There's  a 
teamster  I  often  see  going  by  our  street.  He's  a  splen- 
did-looking man,  big  and  strong,  and  his  face  looks  clear. 
I  don't  even  know  his  name  or  anything  about  him,  but 
when  I  see  him  I  think  'I  wish  I  could  have  a  child  by 
that  man.'  It's  strange  to  have  thoughts  like  that  come 
to  you.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  myself."  She 
stopped  and  looked  at  him  as  if  for  counsel.  ' '  And  then 
I  keep  thinking  of  all  those  other  girls  wanting  just  what 
I  want,  and  I  see  those  thousands  of  kiddies  that  aren't 
wanted,  sprawling  all  over  the  streets  down  there  on  the 
East  Side  and  scrambling  up  any  way  they  can,  and  I 
can 't  make  head  or  tail  of  it. ' ' 

John  had  listened  with  every  nerve  in  his  body  drawn 
towards  her.  That  he  had  not  touched  her  was  only 
because  he  feared  to  break  the  spell  of  her  unconscious- 
ness. He  had  asked  himself  as  she  spoke, — Is  it  possible 
she  cannot  know?  Or  is  she  reaching  out  simply  and 
directly  for  what  she  wants,  fully  aware  ?    He  could  not 

202 


DEIPT 

tell.  He  knew  that  not  yet  had  she  thought  of  him 
as  she  had  thought  of  the  "  splendid-looking  teamster 
whose  face  was  clear.' '  He  knew,  too,  that  he  had  found 
his  mate  and  that  come  what  might,  they  two  must  be 
together. 

The  black  water  raced  past  them,  the  night  closed 
around  them:  in  a  voice  curiously  hushed,  as  if  in  the 
presence  of  some  elemental  mystery,  John  said  to  her, 
"I  cannot  tell  you  how  profoundly  you  have  touched 
me  by  what  you  have  said.  It  seems  to  me  very  won- 
derful that  you  should  feel  this  way,  that  you  should 
be  willing  to  express  it." 

"Please  don't  say  that,  sir,"  Margaret  broke  in.  "I'm 
just  telling  you  the  truth  because  I  knew,  that  day  of  the 
committee  meeting,  that  you  were  the  one  who  under- 
stood what  I  meant.  At  least  I  thought  so;  I  don't 
know  quite  why." 

"Is  it  only  because  I  was  on  that  committee  that 
you  have  been  willing  to  tell  me  of  yourself  now?"  he 
said. 

She  looked  startled  and  distressed.  "Oh,  no,  sir." 
she  said.  ■ '  It  was  because  you  were  kind.  It 's  late  now, 
I  must  go  to  bed.  I'm  glad  you  let  me  talk,  it's  done 
me  good.    I  '11  never  forget. ' '    She  held  out  her  hand. 

John  had  a  sense  of  bitter  dismay.  Was  it  possible 
that  she  had  felt  nothing  during  her  strange  recital 
save  appreciation  of  the  sympathy  which  had  drawn  it 
forth  ?  It  could  not  be,  the  tumult  within  him  had  been 
too  great.    He  took  her  hand. 

"I  shall  see  you  again,"  he  said.  "You  live  on 
Twenty-second  Street — what  is  the  number?  I  may 
come?" 

"Why  yes,"  she  said,  and  wrote  the  address  on  the 
bit  of  paper  he  gave  her,  "I'd  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.    "Good-night." 

203 


DRIFT 

"Good-night,"  she  returned  with  her  bright  look, 
and  went  away. 

As  she  walked  along  the  deck  and  down  the  passage- 
way to  her  stateroom,  Margaret  Whin  was  enwrapped 
in  a  strange  dream.  Her  words  had  brought  back  to 
her  all  the  old  ache  of  desire  that  she  had  striven  to  put 
into  the  background  of  her  thoughts,  yet  now  the  pain 
was  sweet  and  she  welcomed  it.  Slowly  she  undressed 
and  went  to  bed,  still  under  the  spell.  Through  the 
little  window  she  could  see  far-off  lights;  the  swish 
of  the  water  against  the  boat,  the  throb  of  the  engine, 
seemed  simple  and  natural  and  good  to  hear.  It  was 
pleasant  to  be  here,  good  to  have  had  that  talk  with 
someone  who  understood ;  she  fell  asleep,  comforted  and 
happy. 

A  few  hours  later  she  awoke  suddenly,  as  if  she  had 
been  called.  It  seemed  that  while  she  slept,  full  realisa- 
tion of  all  that  she  had  been  saying  had  crept  through 
her  consciousness  to  demand  explanation  in  a  clarion 
note  of  self-accusation.  She  had  been  borne  along 
on  the  current  of  sympathy,  now  the  reaction  had 
come  and  she  was  appalled.  What  had  she  said?  She 
turned  herself  in  the  narrow  berth,  thankful  for  the 
darkness,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  hiding  it 
desperately  in  the  pillows  as  a  surging  flood  of  self- 
consciousness  swept  over  her.  How  could  she  have 
spoken  so  to  a  stranger,  she  who  had  taught  herself  to 
go  her  way  silently?  A  great  wonder  came  over  her. 
She  could  feel  the  strong  grasp  of  his  hand,  could  hear 
his  voice  as  he  said, ' ■  May  I  come  ? ' '  She  knew  now  that 
she  had  called  him ;  she  had  laid  bare  to  him  the  sacred 
things  of  her  heart,  had  given  him  entry  to  her  guarded 
sanctuary,  and  she  had  done  it  unsought,  unasked !  No, 
not  quite,  he  had  asked  her  to  tell  him  of  herself,  asked 
her  twice,  but  had  he  meant  so  much?  Again  her  cheeks 
burned  as  the  hot  flush  swept  over  her.    Did  she  regret 

204 


DRIFT 

it?  She  could  not  tell.  In  spite  of  her  distress,  there 
was,  deep  down,  a  strong  sense  of  exaltation  and  excite- 
ment. It  was  as  if  at  last  the  woman  in  her  had  been 
released.  She  realised  that  she  had  sent  forth  her  call, 
the  everlasting  mating  cry;  would  it  be  answered?  She 
did  not  know. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IT  was  several  weeks  later  that  John  returned  to  New 
York.  He  had  wished  to  be  alone,  to  think  out 
what  he  would  do.  As  he  had  walked  away  from  Mar- 
garet on  the  boat  for  a  few  minutes '  thought,  so  now  he 
absented  himself  from  all  whom  he  knew  and  spent  the 
time  thinking  over  the  events  of  his  life,  his  situation 
in  regard  to  Eileen  and  what  he  wished  to  accomplish 
in  the  future.  A  need  was  upon  him  to  ascertain  ex- 
actly where  he  stood.  "Part  of  me  is  my  own  grand- 
father, looking  at  what  I  do  and  criticising, ' '  he  had 
once  said  to  his  mother.  "He's  bound  to  keep  watch.'7 
And  she  had  replied,  "If  you  mean  your  grandfather 
Templeton,  the  watch  must  be  pretty  austere. "  "  It  is, ' ' 
he  had  said  and  laughed  and  kissed  her.  He  did  not  know 
how  many  times  his  mother  had  hugged  the  light  words 
to  her  breast.  All  that  he  had  ever  done  in  his  life  had 
been  through  intention.    It  would  be  so  now. 

When  he  returned  to  the  city  and  later  to  the 
Long  Island  place,  he  found  that  Eileen  had  gone 
to  the  Farm.  There  was  a  note  from  her  to  say 
that  Aunt  Emma  was  seriously  ill.  She  would  telegraph 
to  his  office  as  soon  as  she  arrived.  She  had  not  known 
where  to  reach  him  to  let  him  know.  Full  of  self-re- 
proach he  sent  for  time-tables,  and  finding  that  he 
could  reach  the  Farm  by  evening,  returned  to  New 
York. 

206 


DEIFT 

The  two  hours '  journey  to  the  Connecticut  village 
seemed  long.  John  was  tormented  with  the  thought  that 
while  Eileen  had  borne  this  anxiety  and  sorrow,  he  had 
been  away  from  her,  his  thoughts  even  had  not  been 
with  her.  Strange  plans  had  suggested  themselves  to 
his  mind  which  now  seemed  remote  and  altogether  im- 
possible. 

The  old  butler  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  station. 
"It's  all  over,"  he  said.  "I  am  very  glad  you  are  here. 
Mrs.  Templeton  was  thankful  when  your  telegram  came 
saying  you  were  on  the  way. '  * 

Eileen  came  down  to  him  crying.  "Oh,  where  were 
you?  Where  were  you?"  she  sobbed.  "I  couldn't  find 
you  and  I  wanted  you  so!  I  got  here  in  time,  just  a 
few  hours  before  the  end.  She  tried  to  say  something 
to  me  but  I  couldn't  understand.  We  couldn't  make 
out.  I  sat  by  her  all  the  time  after  I  came.  She  knew 
I  was  there.  It  was  all  over  so  quickly!  I  didn't  know 
death  was  like  that.    Isn't  it  strange?" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Eileen  had  seen  death.  She 
seemed  shaken  and  bewildered.  John  could  only  be 
thankful  he  was  there  in  time  to  take  charge  of  all 
arrangements.  It  was  dreadful  to  him  to  think  of  her 
journey  alone. 

They  went  together  to  the  room  where  Aunt  Emma 
lay  in  the  quietude  of  her  great  sleep.  As  they  entered 
Eileen  whispered,  "She  is  so  beautiful,  John.  I  never 
knew  before  that  she  was  beautiful." 

It  was  true.  There  was  a  majestic  and  noble  beauty 
in  the  waxen  face.  Gentle,  Aunt  Emma  had  always 
been,  loving  and  unassuming  and  kind;  now  it 
seemed  that  she  had  been  much  more.  Why,  John  asked 
himself,  when  the  spirit  had  gone  should  this  be  made 
more  plain?  Was  the  silent  body  speaking,  bearing 
testimony  at  the  last? 

"John,"  said  Eileen,  "they  say  when  people  are  old, 

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DRIFT 

their  lives  are  written  on  their  faces.  I  wish,  oh  I 
wish,  I  could  live  so  as  to  look  like  that ! ' '  She  turned 
to  him  a  face  marked  by  weeping.  ' '  Will  you  help  me  ? 
Oh,  John,  will  you?  I  want  to  be  good,  but  I  don't  know 
how.    You  are  all  I  have,  will  you  help  me?" 

"I  want  to  help  you,  dear,  if  I  can.  I  do  not  need 
to  tell  you  that.  It  is  hard  to  know  what  is  good,  isn't 
it?" 

As  John  looked  at  the  purity  of  outline,  the  extreme 
delicacy  of  that  quiet  face,  he  wondered  what  had  been  its 
history.  Had  those  closed  eyes  known  tears,  that  tender 
mouth  been  twisted  in  the  effort  to  conceal  distress  ?  He 
wondered  if  Aunt  Emma  had  known  what  it  was  to 
watch  through  the  night,  eaten  and  consumed  and  beset 
by  restless  pain.  As  he  remembered  her,  it  seemed  hard 
to  believe — yet  who  could  tell?  In  a  little  time  those 
whose  hearts  now  ached  would  be  as  she  was.  It  mat- 
tered little,  one  person's  joy  or  pain. 

Eileen  sat  down  by  the  bed,  one  hand  stretched  out. 
"Oh,  John — if  I  could  speak  to  her!  If  I  could  only 
say  one  word!  I  told  her  I  loved  her,  told  her  over 
and  over,  but  I  couldn't  be  sure  she  understood.  She 
lay  so  quiet,  and  then, — it  was  just  before  the  end,  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  us,  each  one  of  us,  but 
as  if  she  didn't  see  us,  she  looked  away,— out,  out,  out — 
as  if  she  saw  something  we  couldn't  see.  There  was 
an  intensity,  I  can't  describe  it —  Oh,  John,  what  did 
it  mean?  Is  there  anything  beyond,  do  you  think?  I'm 
sure  she  saw  something,  she  almost  started  up  as  if  to 
go  towards  it.    If  we  could  only  know!" 

John  tried  to  persuade  her  to  take  a  little  rest,  but 
she  would  not  leave  the  room.  "Not  while  she  looks 
like  that,  it  is  just  as  if  she  might  speak.  I  don't  want 
to  be  away.  "Why  didn't  I  come  sooner,  why  didn't  I? 
She  never  asked  me  to  come,  she  never  asked  anything, 
but  she  wanted  me,  and  I  wasn't  here.    I  know  by  the 

208 


DEIFT 

way  her  eyes  followed  me  that  she  wanted  me,  and  now 
it's  too  late." 

John  said  all  that  he  could,  but  Eileen's  grief  was 
too  deep  for  any  consolation  he  might  suggest.  Finally 
he  went  down-stairs,  where  various  matters  waited  for 
his  decision.  He  found  the  lawyer  and  a  number  of 
people  from  the  near-by  village  who  had  come  to  make 
offers  of  assistance.  From  their  words,  he  learned  how 
deeply  Aunt  Emma  had  been  beloved,  how  sincerely  she 
was  mourned  by  those  among  whom  she  had  lived  her 
seventy  years  of  placid  life.  The  lawyer  outlined  to 
John  the  conditions  of  the  will,  a  copy  of  which  he  had 
brought.     He  would  read  it  after  the  funeral,  he  said. 

It  was  evident  that  the  small  church  in  the  village 
would  not  be  large  enough  for  those  who  wished  to  come, 
so  it  was  arranged  that  the  service  should  be  held  on 
the  lawn  under  the  apple-trees  at  the  Farm. 

It  was  a  beautiful  midsummer  day.  On  the  faces  of 
those  gathered  to  do  her  honour  was  the  realisation  that 
in  the  passing  of  a  life,  so  gently  lived,  so  peacefully 
ended,  there  should  not  be  any  clamour  of  weeping, 
any  marks  of  undue  grief.  Let  them  rejoice  for  the 
beauty  and  loveliness  that  had  been.  She  would  wish 
it  so. 

Something  of  this,  the  white-haired  clergyman,  who 
had  been  her  friend  and  almoner,  expressed,  and  Eileen 
tried  to  still  the  cry  of  anguish  in  her  heart.  Oh,  if 
only  she  had  been  kinder!  If  only  she  had  been  with 
her  more !  She  loved  her  dearly,  why  had  she  not  told 
her?    Why,  why? 

As  if  for  the  first  time  she  heard  the  everlasting 
words: 

"Oh  spare  me  a  little  that  I  may  recover  my  strength 

before  I  go  hence  and  be  no  more  seen. 

209 


DEIFT 

"As  soon  as  thou  scatterest  them  they  are  even  as  a 
sleep :  and  fade  away  suddenly  like  the  grass. 

"There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun  and  another  glory  of 
the  moon  and  another  glory  of  the  stars:  for  one  star 
differeth  from  another  star  in  glory,  so  also  is  the 
resurrection  from  the  dead. 

"Hear  my  prayer,  0  Lord,  hold  not  Thy  peace  at  my 
tears. ' ' 

Solemnly  the  great  affirmation  rang  out,  "Whosoever 
believeth  in  me  shall  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting 
life. ? '  And  then  there  stole  through  the  summer  air, 
voiced  in  flute  notes  of  high  beauty,  the  promise — 
"Peace,  perfect  peace,  by  thronging  duties  pressed — 
Peace,  perfect  peace,  our  future  all  unknown — 
Peace,  perfect  peace,  with  sorrow  surging  round."  In 
a  little  while  the  final  words — "Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to 
ashes,"  were  spoken  and  Aunt  Emma  was  laid  away 
from  sight. 

The  lawyer  who  had  drawn  the  will  evidently  wished 
to  make  something  of  a  ceremony  of  reading  it  aloud. 
He  named  a  number  of  persons  he  thought  should  be 
asked  to  attend.  In  the  evening  an  assemblage  of  ten 
or  twelve  people  were  gathered  in  the  library. 

There  were  generous  bequests  to  a  number  of  rela- 
tives and  to  all  the  servants,  besides  gifts  to  a  number 
of  charities.  To  Eileen  was  left  the  Farm  and  all 
personal  effects.  Then  came  the  curious  part.  Not  far 
from  the  Farm  there  was  a  large,  ugly,  brick  build- 
ing, known  as  "The  Old  Ladies'  Home."  As  a  child 
Eileen  had  watched  the  old  women  whose  "Home"  it 
was  sitting  about  on  the  lawn  and  piazzas.  She  was 
rather  afraid  of  them,  they  seemed  so  old  and  strange. 
She  remembered  Aunt  Emma's  visits  there  and  the 
flowers  and  fruits  and  books  she  was  in  the  habit  of 
sending.  Evidently  there  were  friends  of  years'  stand- 
ing among  the  beneficiaries,  for  word  had  been  received 

210 


DRIFT 

that  it  was  their  wish  to  attend  the  funeral.  Eileen  had 
looked  at  them  curiously  as  they  were  assisted  to  their 
places.  The  realisation  came  over  her  that  many  others 
had  loved  her  aunt  and  companioned  her  during  the 
years  she  herself  had  never  come ! 

After  the  specific  bequests,  Aunt  Emma's  will  be- 
came more  complicated ;  that  is,  in  the  matter  of  phrase- 
ology and  attention  to  remote  possibilities.  The  sub- 
stance of  it  was  simple.  With  a  word  or  two  of  explana- 
tion, "  knowing  that  my  dearly  loved  niece,  Eileen  Tem- 
pleton,  is  amply  provided  for,  and  feeling  sure  that  she 
will  understand  and  appreciate  my  wish,"  Aunt  Emma 
left  the  bulk  of  her  estate  to  found  and  maintain  a 
"Home"  where  aged  married  couples  could  remain  to- 
gether. The  plan  had  been  carefully  thought  out,  and  a 
board  of  trustees  appointed.  The  Home  was  to  be  on  the 
cottage  system  and  "every  effort  made  to  bring  to  each 
cottage  such  personal  effects  of  those  who  were  to  live 
there  as  to  render  it  homelike  and  agreeable.' ' 

As  she  listened  to  the  reading  of  the  pages,  under- 
neath the  formal  wording,  Eileen  recognised  Aunt 
Emma's  tender  thought,  the  minute  and  careful  way 
in  which  she  had  planned.  How  strange,  no  word  of 
her  idea  had  ever  been  spoken  except  to  the  old  lawyer 
who  had  helped  her  make  provisions  for  ' '  aged  married 
couples  to  remain  together."  What  had  been  at  work 
in  her  mind  to  make  that  idea  so  important?  Eileen 
wondered.  She  said  something  of  this  to  John  on  the 
train  next  day,  but  he  had  no  explanation  to  offer. 
Eileen  was  thankful  for  the  trust  implied  in  the  words 
"knowing  my  dearly  loved  niece  will  understand  and 
appreciate."  She  repeated  the  phrase  over  as  if  it 
gave  her  comfort.  Vague  plans  were  in  her  mind  for 
revising  her  own  will  to  compass  some  such  ends.  She 
asked  John  to  advise  her,  and  they  agreed  to  go  into 
the  matter  fully  and  carefully  during  the  following 

211 


DRIFT 

winter.  Eileen  did  not  speak  of  the  thing  that  lay 
heaviest  on  her  heart,  that  Aunt  Emma  had  given  her 
no  share  in  the  labour  of  carrying  out  her  plans. 

Alone  in  her  room  in  the  great  city,  Eileen  said  again 
and  again,  "Hold  not  thy  peace  at  my  tears!  Hold  not 
thy  peace  at  my  tears !" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

JOHN  was  perplexed  at  the  depth  of  Eileen's  grief.  He 
had  never  thought  the  sympathy  between  her  and 
Aunt  Emma  very  strong.  He  tried  to  comfort  her,  tried 
to  be  with  her,  but  he  had  filled  his  life  very  full  and 
there  were  demands  upon  his  time. 

Eileen  passed  many  hours  alone.  She  tried  to  read 
during  the  long  winter  evenings,  but  would  more  often 
sit  questioning  herself  in  the  old  way.  She  was  not 
yet  thirty  and  what  was  before  her?  She  felt  that 
John  did  not  need  her.  He  was  invariably  kind,  in- 
variably thoughtful,  she  had  grown  dependent  upon  his 
care  for  her;  however  far  apart  they  had  been,  that 
had  never  failed.  She  believed  that  he  cared  for  her 
and  wished  that  she  could  be  more  a  part  of  his  life. 
She  tried  to  interest  herself  in  his  pursuits,  but  they 
seemed  beyond  her. 

They  had  several  long  talks  together,  even  reaching 
the  point  of  trying  to  find  out  what  was  wrong  in  their 
own  relationship,  but  without  success.  They  were  too 
close  to  the  pain.  Out  of  these  talks,  however,  there 
developed  a  friendliness  that  was  sincere.  It  seemed 
something  tangible,  if  slight,  after  the  constraint  and 
aloofness  of  the  preceding  years. 

Life  was  passing  by.  In  a  year  or  so  Eileen  found 
herself  again  the  centre  of  the  beautiful,  gay  world  that 

213 


DEIFT 

sought  for  pleasure.  During  her  period  of  mourning 
she  had  tried  to  work  on  various  board's  and  committees 
of  charities  in  which  Aunt  Emma  had  been  interested. 
There  were  certain  duties  in  connection  with  these  which 
she  performed  conscientiously,  but  they  were  not  enough. 
As  before,  the  world  possessed  her;  there  were  house- 
parties  and  gayeties  and  entertaining;  underneath, 
profound  dissatisfaction  and  unrest.  John  was  away 
practically  all  of  the  time.  If  their  world  knew  of 
the  gulf  between  them  it  was  ignored.  John  was 
known  to  be  very  busy  and  his  absence  was  ex- 
cused. To  some  it  was  a  relief;  he  had  become  very 
grave.  He  often  stayed  at  his  mother's  house,  and 
Eileen  was  glad  that  the  two  seemed  to  be  coming 
closer  together.  What  had  eight  years  of  marriage 
brought?  Only  emptiness  and  sorrow.  Eileen  did  not 
know  what  to  do  to  remedy  that  which  was  wrong. 

One  real  pleasure  came  to  her, — the  renewal  of  friend- 
ship with  an  old  school  friend,  Clara  Ainsboro  by  name. 
They  met  in  a  shop  one  day  and  greeted  each  other 
warmly.  Neither  could  recall  the  other's  married  name 
and  various  bits  of  personal  history  were  quickly  ex- 
changed. Visits  ensued  and  something  like  intimacy 
developed.  They  were  very  unlike.  Clara  said  one  day, 
"Your  life  is  set  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  symphony 
of  violins,  mine  to  a  jig  on  a  hand  organ."  Another 
time  she  begged  Eileen  not  to  be  so  "  transcendental. ' ' 
"You  forget,"  she  said,  "I  have  three  fat  babies  to  care 
for  and  must  consider  the  price  of  beans."  Eileen 
found  her  directness  pleasant.  She  liked  to  go  to  Clara's 
house,  a  small  one  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  park,  where 
two  maidservants  and  Clara  herself  managed  the  cheer- 
ful and  noisy  establishment  as  well  as  they  could. 

If  Clara  suspected  anything  of  her  friend's  unhappi- 
ness  she  never  gave  any  intimation,  and  Eileen  had  for 

214 


DRIFT 

so  long  lived  within  herself  that  she  had  little  impulse  to 
communicate.  In  the  years  gone  by  she  had  often 
longed  for  someone  to  talk  to,  someone  to  whom  she 
could  go  for  counsel  and  sympathy,  but  the  desire  had 
passed.    She  had  given  up  hope  that  anyone  could  help. 

One  day  Eileen  was  roused  to  startled  interest  by  a 
letter  from  Robert  Thorne.  It  had  been  forwarded  from 
the  Farm.  A  letter  had  come  from  him  at  the  time 
of  her  marriage,  wishing  her  happiness.  Now  he  was  in 
New  York  and  wrote  to  ask  if  he  might  come  to  see  her. 
Eileen  held  the  note  in  her  hand  as  her  mind  went  back 
to  those  spring  days  in  Paris.  How  happy  they  had 
been  together!  She  had  forgotten  what  it  was  to  feel 
like  that.  What  if  she  had  answered  him  differently? 
Would  her  life  have  turned  out  better? 

She  found  that  she  wanted  very  much  to  see  Robert 
Thorne.  There  had  been  several  men  since  her  marriage 
who  had  shown  signs  of  devotion;  she  had  wondered 
that  they  did  not  interest  her  more,  but  now  she  was 
excited.  She  wondered  whether  Thorne  had  married, 
what  life  had  done  to  him,  whether  he  had  kept  the 
same  buoyant  freshness  and  vigour  she  had  found  so 
attractive.  She  read  the  brief  note  over  and  answered 
it,  bidding  him  come  the  next  afternoon.  Then  she 
almost  repented,  fearing  that  he  might  discover  changes 
in  her,  detect  her  unhappiness.  She  was  sensitively 
afraid  the  failure  of  her  married  life  would  be  dis- 
cerned. 

At  dinner  she  told  John  of  Thome's  note,  asking 
him  to  come  into  the  drawing-room  on  the  following 
afternoon  if  he  could.  "He  wanted  to  marry  me," 
she  said.  "I  liked  him  greatly,  but  I  think  I  did  not 
appreciate  him.  Aunt  Emma  was  dreadfully  worried. 
She  never  called  him  anything  but  'that  young  man/  I 
remember.,,     She  went  on  to  tell  of  the  way  Thorne 

215 


DRIFT 

used  to  talk  of  the  young  city  of  which  he  was  a  part, 
and  gave  such  a  vivid  picture  that  to  John's  mind  came 
the  thought,  "What  if  she  had  married  him?  Would 
he  have  made  her  happier  than  I?" 

The  next  day  Eileen  was  uneasy.  She  almost  wished 
she  had  not  bade  him  come,  yet  she  waited  the  hour  with 
eagerness.  She  could  not  have  defined  of  what  she  was 
afraid.    At  five  Thorne  came. 

"My  word !"  he  exclaimed  as  he  looked  around.  "Does 
one  sit  down  and  talk  here?" 

Eileen  laughed  and  the  gayety  in  the  sound  surprised 
her.  So  he  hadn't  changed!  She  told  him  it  was  quite 
safe,  and  with  another  comprehensive  look  of  awe  and 
wonder  he  did  sit  down  and  bent  his  entire  attention 
upon  her.  She  had  prepared  her  defences  against  any 
questions  he  might  ask,  resolved  he  should  guess  noth- 
ing, yet  his  look  was  disconcerting.  It  was  as  if  he  said, 
"Yes,  I  hear  all  these  things  you  are  telling,  but  what 
is  the  real  truth?    How  is  it  with  you?" 

For  the  first  few  minutes  each  enquired  what  had 
"happened"  to  the  other,  laughing  as  questions  and 
answers  overlapped.  There  was  no  constraint  as  Eileen 
had  feared.  Thorne  spoke  of  the  past  with  entire 
frankness.  He  was  so  glad,  he  said,  that  they  could  meet 
again  as  old  friends.  To  Eileen  he  seemed  like 
the  north  wind,  like  some  wide  and  elemental 
force  which  sweeps  before  it  all  things  small 
and  confused.  She  asked  him  how  the  projects 
of  which  he  had  told  her  had  prospered,  and  he  entered 
into  an  eager  description;  "and  there  was  still  so  much 
to  do  ahead,' '  he  said. 

Eileen  watched  him,  and  the  spell  of  his  virility  caught 
her.  She  noticed  how  he  threw  back  his  head  as  of  old ; 
the  quick  expressive  gestures  of  his  brown  hands  delight- 
ed her.  Suddenly  he  broke  out  with,  "But  here  I  am 
running  on  about  myself  and  all  these  remote  things 

216 


DRIFT 

you're  good  enough  to  take  an  interest  in  and  not  hear- 
ing a  single  word  about  you,  which  is  what  I  came  for. 
I  want  the  whole  story  from  the  time  we  were  in  Paris. 
If  there  isn't  time  today,  I'll  come  again  tomorrow. 
Don't  skip  anything,  will  you?"  He  looked  at  her 
smiling  and  waited. 

"I'm  afraid  my  life  has  been  very  uneventful  beside 
yours, ' '  she  said,  and  it  took  a  number  of  questions  from 
Thorne  to  elicit  even  such  facts  as  she  gave  him.  Eileen 's 
usual  ease  at  hiding  what  she  thought  failed  her  a  little ; 
his  questions  troubled  her,  vague  as  they  were.  He 
must  not  know.  She  over-elaborated  the  things  that  had 
given  her  pleasure,  and  after  a  little  Thorne  compre- 
hended that  she  was  telling  him  nothing  and  asked  after 
Aunt  Emma. 

He  was  interested  in  her  peculiar  will.  "Do  you 
know,  I  think  that's  bully,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
Again,  as  in  those  far-off  Paris  days,  something  in  the 
homeliness  of  his  speech  stirred  her. 

John  came  in  for  a  few  minutes.  Divining  Eileen's 
wish  for  cordiality,  he  asked  her  when  Mr.  Thorne  was 
to  dine  with  them. 

"As  soon  as  you  like,"  Thorne  said  in  answer  to 
Eileen's  seconding  of  John's  enquiry.  "I'd  like  to 
come." 

"Tomorrow,"  said  Eileen,  "and  not  a  party." 

"No!  God  save  the  mark!"  said  Robert  Thorne,  and 
went  away. 

On  the  following  evening  Eileen  found  him  in  the 
drawing-room  examining  the  pictures.  "Tell  me  about 
them,"  he  said.  "I  never  saw  a  house  like  this  before. 
It  is  very  beautiful;  because  it's  yours,  I  suppose." 

"Apparently  your  art  education  has  not  progressed 
since  Paris,"  she  said.  "This  is  a  Fragonard.  I  in- 
herited it,  I  never  would  have  bought  it ;  and  this, ' '  she 
turned  a  picture  which  leaned  against  the  wall,  "is  a 

217 


DRIFT 

Matisse.  I  haven't  decided  on  it  yet.  Give  me  your 
advice. ' ' 

Thorne  considered  both  pictures  gravely,  then  he 
said,  "I  like  the  queer  one  better;  there  seems  to  be 
more  there.  It  certainly  is  queer  though!"  He  bent 
to  it  again  and  shook  his  head.  "  There  was  a  chap  in 
Paris  with  white  hair  who  winked  who  knew  all  about 
these  things.  I  wanted  to  kill  him.  He  was  a  wicked 
man." 

"Oh  no!"  Eileen  exclaimed,  "he  is  quite  harmless. 
He  still  winks — when  he  wants  to.  He  has  a  beautiful 
collection,  only  people  are  rather  afraid  to  go  and  see 
his  pictures,  afraid  of  saying  the  wrong  thing,  I  mean. 
They  always  know  it  when  they  have.  Would  you  like 
to  go?    I  remember  he  called  you  an  ' unspoiled  spirit'." 

Thorne  was  aghast.  "You  aren't  serious,  are  you?  I 
tell  you  he  is  a  wicked  man.  Better  not  bring  us 
together,  I  might  want  to  kill  him  again." 

Eileen  laughed.  She  had  always  wondered  about 
Crockett  herself;  it  was  odd  to  hear  him  gravely  de- 
nounced by  so  simple  a  word.  "All  right,  I  won't  take 
you,"  she  said. 

Thorne  wandered  about  the  room  looking  at  various 
pictures.  "I  wish  I  knew  more  about  these  things," 
he  observed.  "You  love  them,  don't  you?"  You  were 
heavenly  good  to  me  in  Paris.  Weren't  those  wonderful 
days?  I  like  to  remember  them, — better  than  the  ones 
that  followed." 

Eileen  caught  her  breath,  but  he  went  on  quietly.  "I 
think  I'll  take  a  year  off  and  devote  it  to  getting  an 
education  in  beauty.  Nature  is  so  overwhelming  out  in 
my  country  she  seems  to  crowd  art  out,  but  one  ought 
to  know  about  beautiful  things  like  these."  He  waved 
his  hand  smiling  and  then  looked  at  Eileen  as  if  he 
considered  her  one  of  the  "beautiful  things." 

Eileen  stood  leaning  against  a  screen  of  tarnished 

218 


DEIFT 

gold.  She  was  dressed  in  heavy  green  silk.  The  soft 
folds  clung  about  her  long,  delicate  body  and  swirled 
around  her  feet.  The  sleeves  were  of  filmy,  floating  stuff, 
confined  at  the  wrists  with  gold.  In  her  hair  was  a  gold 
fillet  with  an  emerald  set  just  where  the  hair  met  the 
low  forehead. 

Suddenly  Thome's  gaze  was  too  full  of  admiration. 
She  turned  away  startled,  and  he  murmured  a  word  of 
apology.  "You  know,  it  is  rather  wonderful,  seeing  you 
again  like  this,"  he  said. 

During  dinner  he  and  John  found  much  to  say  to 
each  other.  Eileen  felt  herself  a  little  left  out  as  the 
talk  flowed  into  channels  out  of  her  ken.  They  dis- 
agreed radically  on  all  political  questions,  but  were  of 
one  accord  as  to  the  utter  obstinacy  and  general  hope- 
lessness of  state  legislators,  whether  on  the  Atlantic  or 
the  Pacific  coast.  Again,  as  she  listened  to  Thome's  talk, 
Eileen  had  a  vision  of  a  bigger  world.  He  seemed  to 
deal  with  its  needs  and  problems  with  a  great  patience, 
a  great  faith  that  all  would  be  well. 

After  he  had  gone  John  commented  on  this  quality 
in  him.  "Kather  a  remarkable  man,  that,  I  should 
imagine.  I  wonder  if  'his  State/  as  he  calls  it,  appre- 
ciates him?  He  seems  to  have  stood  a  good  many  knocks 
politically.  Men  who  fight  for  clean  administration 
generally  do." 

Eileen  was  pleased  at  John's  words.  She  had  an 
impulse  to  repeat  them  to  Thorne  on  their  next  meeting, 
but  thought  better  of  it.  She  could  imagine  his  amused 
grin.     Fighting  seemed  to  be  a  stimulus  he  enjoyed. 

Thorne  came  to  see  her  often.  He  had,  at  first,  spoken 
of  expecting  to  leave  shortly,  but  the  days  passed  by 
and  he  always  asked  at  parting  when  he  was  to  see  her 
again. 

Eileen  lived  in  a  dream  world.  Thorne  made  her  gay ; 
it  was  wonderful  to  be  gay  again.    She  had  forgotten 

219 


DEIPT 

that  she  could  be.  She  caught  herself  singing  little 
songs  in  a  low  tone  or  running  upstairs,  eager  to  be 
ready  when  he  came.  They  were  travelling  fast,  but 
did  not  ask  themselves  the  destination.  It  was  enough 
to  be  together. 

They  were  chatting  over  the  teacups  one  day  when 
there  came  a  pause  too  intense  to  be  borne.  Thorne 
breke  it  by  a  question.  "I  want  to  know  whether  you 
Jare  happy  ?  I  think  you  are  not.  I  should  like  to  know 
before  I  go  home  again.  I've  been  staying  on  to  find 
out.    I  decided  yesterday  that  I  would  ask  you." 

Eileen  put  up  defensive  hands.  " Don't,  oh  please 
don't!"  she  said. 

"You  have  answered  me,"  his  voice  was  strained,  "I 
am  sorry.  I  have  always  thought  of  you  as  happy." 
He  said  no  more,  but  there  came  to  be  after  that  a 
sense  of  intimacy  that  Eileen  found  very  sweet.  He 
knew  then,  this  great  big  friend,  knew  from  the  delicacy 
tof  his  own  intuition,  for  she  had  been  at  the  utmost 
ipains  to  hide  the  truth.  He  and  John  had  met  fre- 
quently, always  cordially,  sometimes  with  an  approach 
to  real  liking.  If  John  remarked  the  frequency  of 
Thome's  visits,  he  made  no  sign. 

The  days  grew  into  weeks  and  Thorne  stayed  on. 
Each  time  they  met  there  was  a  more  tremulous  uncer- 
tainty in  their  speech.  They  seemed  to  be  struggling 
to  hold  back  yet  a  little  longer  from  something  they 
knew  must  come. 

One  day  Thorne  repeated  his  statement.  "You  are 
not  happy,  you  are  not!"  Then  he  added,  "And  I 
can  make  you  so!    Good  God!    what's  to  be  done?" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN  February  there  was  a  " Bazaar  of  All  Nations' '  for 
the  benefit  of  a  lying-in  hospital.  Eileen  had  agreed 
to  take  charge  of  the  decorations;  no  slight  task,  con- 
sidering the  size  and  ugliness  of  the  hall  engaged.  Once 
interested,  she  threw  herself  into  the  work,  determined 
that  it  should  be  the  most  beautiful  bazaar  ever  held.  It 
was  soon  apparent  that  the  sum  appropriated  by  the 
executive  committee  for  decorations  would  be  inadequate 
for  the  scheme  as  planned  by  Eileen  and  the  few  bold 
spirits  she  had  summoned  to  her  aid.  Possibly  this 
situation  had  been  anticipated  by  the  committee.  Soon, 
bales  of  lovely  coloured  stuffs  appeared,  extra  work- 
people bent  to,  and  beautiful  things  came  into  being  with 
no  visible  means  of  support. 

Eileen  tried  not  to  think  about  Thorne.  They  had 
one  unforgettable  hour  when  they  acknowledged  what 
had  come  to  be,  when  he  had  taken  her  fiercely  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  over  and  over  again;  she  had  not 
seen  him  since. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  on  the  day  before  the  bazaar 
was  to  open,  John  found  Eileen  on  the  top  of  a  step- 
ladder  in  the  flower  booth.  She  was  flushed  with  triumph 
over  her  achievement  and  clambered  down  to  survey 
it.  "I  knew  it  could  be  done/'  she  said,  "but  there 
is  no  use  trying  to  direct  people  who  can't  see  a  thing 

the  way  you  see  it." 

221 


DEIFT 

"That,"  observed  the  chairman  of  the  flower  com- 
mittee, standing  admiringly  by,  "is  a  profound  observa- 
tion." 

Eileen  could  not  think  of  coming  home,  oh,  not  for 
hours — they  were  bringing  the  flowers,  and  she  must  see 
that  they  were  arranged  properly  as  to  colour.  "  To  do 
justice  to  my  background,"  she  explained. 

The  bazaar  was  opened  with  a  flourish,  and  Eileen 
could  not  help  a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  the  many  compli- 
ments to  her  skill.  It  was  pleasant  to  feel  that  she 
could  do  something  well  and  she  had  actually  worked. 
That  was  pleasant  too.    She  had  made  a  discovery. 

On  the  day  of  the  opening  she  encountered  Thorne 
spending  money  and  looking  bored.  He  greeted  her 
courteously  but  seemed  to  seek  no  special  word 
with  her  alone.  She  watched  him  go  from  her 
with  a  sick  sense  of  bewilderment.  What  had 
she  done?  In  a  few  moments  he  came  back.  "I've 
been  going  through  hell,"  his  voice  was  harsh.  "I 
didn't  come  because — well — I  heard  some  nasty  gossip 
— about  you  and  me,  I  mean.  We  can't  talk  here,  I 
was  afraid  to  ;>speak  to  you  just  now.  I  sent  you  a 
letter — when  can  I  come?  Tomorrow?"  She  nodded, 
and  he  was  gone. 

So,  that  was  what  it  was!  Thome's  ways  were  a 
constant  surprise  to  her.  He  had  kept  away,  kept  her 
wondering,  because  of  some  silly  thing  that  he  had 
heard.  Eileen  was  half  angry  and  half  relieved.  What 
would  he  say  tomorrow?  If  he  could  stay  away  from 
her  for  two  weeks  because  of  some  whispered  word, 
what  might  he  not  do?  Eileen  knew  her  world;  what 
was  said,  in  the  way  Thorne  meant,  mattered  nothing 
to  her,  but  could  she  make  him  see? 

She  wandered  restlessly  about  the  bazaar,  looking  here 
;and  there  to  see  that  her  handiwork  had  remained 
unimpaired,  greeted  everywhere  with  deference.     She 

222 


DRIFT 

became  more  and  more  unhappy  as  she  thought  of 
Thome's  words.  How  could  he  take  that  silly  talk 
seriously? 

The  afternoon  seemed  endless.  She  found  Clara 
Ainsboro  bustling  about  and  wondered  how  could  she 
be  so  cheerful  and  smiling  when  it  was  all  such  idiocy. 
Clara  handed  her  treasury  box  to  her  successor  who 
was  to  serve  in  the  evening,  and  suggested  that  she  and 
Eileen  depart  together  and  at  once.  Hailing  a  taxi-cab 
they  climbed  in  with  sighs  of  thankfulness. 

It  was  beginning  to  snow,  and  as  they  drove  through 
the  lighted  streets,  the  white  specks,  whirled  by  the  wind, 
made  Eileen  think  of  the  Christmas-tree  tinsel  of  her 
childhood ;  how  it  had  showered  down  mysteriously  from 
somewhere  out  of  sight,  entrancing  her  with  its  unfamil- 
iar beauty.  There  were  the  beribboned  boxes,  the 
sweets;  Grandfather  Endicott,  who  always  came  at 
Christmas  time,  and  used  to  read  her  the  Wonder-Book. 
Why  should  she  be  thinking  of  that  far-off  time  now? 
She  wondered  if  anyone  had  Christmas  trees  any  more, 
if  anyone  was  happy  enough  to  have  them,  and  she 
wondered  what  the  grown-up  people  who  gave  her  pres- 
ents then  would  think  of  what  she  was  doing  now. 

Clara's  voice  broke  in.  " Never  again !"  she  was  say- 
ing, "  never,  never  again !  Five  hundred  and  thirty-eight 
dollars  less  three  hundred  and  eighty-two, — oh,  good- 
ness, I'll  have  to  do  that  on  paper — it  isn't  much,  is  it? 
About  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  I  wonder  if  any  of 
the  other  tables  did  better.  Bazaars  are  crazy  things. 
I  'm  awfully  late  for  my  babies — they  always  expect  me 
to  be  there  at  half -past-five  when  they  have  their  supper. 
It's  tyranny,  but  I  adore  it.  I  have  to  give  a  good 
reason  for  my  tardiness,  and  let  them  sit  up  an  extra 
half -hour." 

Eileen  was  only  half  listening.    "Have  you  to  give 

223 


DRIFT 

an  account  of  all  your  actions  to  your  children  ?"  she 
drawled,  ' '  how  very  absurd !  f ' 

''No,  of  course  not,"  came  the  answer,  "only  at  sup- 
per-time. Clara  was  leaning  forward  in  the  cab  as  the 
driver  slowed  down  to  look  for  the  number.  "It  is 
very  sweet,  you  know,  to  have  them  waiting,  eager  for 
you,  to  know  they  need  you,  that  no  one  else  will  do. 
Why,  it's  life  itself!  Here  we  are!  Driver!  Second 
house  from  the  corner  on  the  left ! '  * 

She  had  the  door  open,  and  was  half  way  up  the 
walk,  calling  over  her  shoulder,  "Do  come  in,  won't 
you,  and  stay  for  dinner ?"  She  ran  up  the  steps.  The 
front  door  opened  as  she  reached  it,  and  three  small 
figures,  clad  in  strange,  bifurcated  garments  of  bright 
scarlet,  fell  upon  her  with  outcries  and  reproaches. 

"We  had  plum  jam,  and  you  weren't  here,  so  I 
couldn't  have  any,"  wailed  one  voice.  "Here's  the 
book,  page  two  hundred  and  five,"  said  another,  while 
a  third,  a  slow  deep  bass,  solemnly  proclaimed,  "You's 
late,  and  you's  late  tomorrow!" 

"Oh,  duckies,"  Clara's  voice  was  full  of  contrition. 
"Mother's  sorry!  Shoo,  now  shoo!  Shut  the  door." 
She  turned  to  Eileen,  silent,  standing  on  the  step.  "You 
will  come?"  she  said.  "I'll  warrant  you  haven't  read 
Ali  Baba  in  years.  It's  great  stuff."  She  pulled  Eileen 
in  and  gave  her  a  chair.  ' '  Sit  down  there.  Now,  chicks, 
here  we  are,  lots  of  time  to  read."  The  red  gnomes 
tugged  chairs  to  the  fire,  curled  themselves  up  and 
fixed  expectant  eyes  on  Clara  as  she  took  the  book,  put- 
ting her  own  forefinger  on  the  place  her  eldest  son  had 
been  carefully  guarding. 

"Ali  Baba  loaded  his  asses  with  gold  coin  and  then 
covering  the  bags  with  sticks  he  returned  home.  Se- 
curing the  door  of  his  house,  he  emptied  out  the  gold 
before  his  wife,  who  threw  up  her  hands  in  delight  and 
amazement.  He  told  her  all,  urging  upon  her  the  neces- 
sity of  keeping  the  secret. 

224 


DRIFT 

"The  wife  rejoiced  at  their  good  fortune,  and  would 
count  the  gold,  piece  by  piece.  'Wife,'  said  Ali  Baba, 
'you  will  never  have  done.  I  will  dig  a  hole  and  bury 
it ;  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost. ' 

M  'But  let  us  know  how  much  we  have,'  said  the 
wife.  'I  will  borrow  a  small  measure  and  measure  it 
while  you  dig  the  hole.' 

"Away  ran  the  wife  to  her  brother-in-law,  Cassim,  and 
desired  to  borrow  a  measure  for  a  little  while.  Now 
Cassim  Js  wife  was  curious  to  know  what  her  sister-in- 
law  wanted  to  measure,  and  artfully  put  some  suet  in 
the  bottom  of  the  pot." 

Eileen  watched  the  scene  with  a  curious  sense  of  de- 
tachment. Was  Clara  really  as  happy  as  she  thought 
she  was?  What  had  she  meant  by  her  words  about  "life 
itself"?  She  remembered  a  significant  talk  she  had  had 
with  the  doctor  after  that  dreadful  time  five  years  ago. 
How  would  it  be  if  she  had  not  had  that  talk?  Would 
she  be  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  with  a  sleepy  child 
in  her  arms  and  two  more  wriggling  with  eagerness 
near  by  ?  As  Clara  read  on  Eileen  grew  sorry  that  this 
joy  was  not  hers.  She  had  a  sense  of  injury.  Did  Clara 
wish  to  show  her  all  that  she,  Eileen  lacked?  Did  she 
mean,  by  making  her  a  part  of  the  scene,  to  express  in 
that  way  her  disapproval  of  Thorne,  to  show  her  that 
her  love  affair  was  merely  a  substitute,  a  shadow? 
Clara  had  met  Thorne  several  times  and  liked  him; 
perhaps  she  thought — Eileen's  cheeks  grew  hot— it 
must  be  sweet  to  have  a  small  hand  reaching  up  around 
one's  neck!  Then  recollection  swept  over  her, — (no,  no, 
it  could  not  be — the  memory  of  that  year  of  misery  was 
intolerable.  She  thought  of  John.  He  had  never  said 
anything  since  that  one  talk  they  had  had  after  the 
child  had  died.  He  was  absorbed  in  his  work ;  children 
never  meant  as  much  to  a  man  as  to  a  woman.  She  pic- 
tured herself  as  Clara  was;  Thorne  would  never  have 

225 


DEIFT 

found  his  way  to  her,  and  how  could  she  live  without 
that,  without  him? 

She  got  up  abruptly,  saying  that  she  must  go.  Clara 
tumbled  her  youngest  off  her  lap  and  rose  to  put  out 
a  detaining  hand.  "I  thought  you  were  going  to  stay 
for  dinner ?"  she  said.    "Do  wait  till  Frank  comes.' ' 

"No,  no,  I  must  go,  don't  interrupt  the  story,"  and 
waving  a  smiling  good-night,  she  went  out.  Some- 
thing, she  could  not  have  told  what,  impelled  her  to 
stand  for  a  moment  looking  in  through  the  blind.  The 
astonished  youngster  who  had  been  dumped  on  the 
hearth-rug  was  picked  up  again,  Clara  mechanically 
pulling  his  thumb  out  of  his  mouth  and  holding  his 
small  fist  in  her  hand  as  she  began  to  read. 

Instead  of  going  home,  Eileen  sent  the  cab  away  and 
turned  to  walk  up  the  avenue.  The  wind  had  risen  and 
the  snow  stung  her  face.  Something  in  her  was 
grateful  for  the  sensation  of  opposition  in  the  storm. 
Holding  her  skirts  and  bending  her  head,  she  pushed 
along  up  into  the  park.  She  wanted  to  think  it  out,  this 
thing  which  she  had  just  seen,  the  little  red  gnomes. 
She  did  not  want  to  go  home,  not  just  yet;  besides 
didn't  people  who  were  unhappy  always  go  out  and 
walk  in  the  storm  ?  As  she  walked  she  thought  of  John 
with  a  sudden  rush  of  tenderness.  He  had  always  been 
good  to  her,  always  giving,  never  asking,  never  resentful 
of  her  periods  of  coldness  and  distance.  It  was  a  long 
time  since  they  had  exchanged  anything  more  than 
courteous  formalities.  She  did  not  know  at  all  what 
was  in  John's  mind?  Was  he  unhappy  in  their  es- 
trangement ?  He  made  no  sign.  She  had  been  absorbed 
with  Thorne  and  thought  of  John  only  with  thankful- 
ness that  he  left  her  free.  What  did  John  think  of 
Thorne?  She  gave  a  little  petulant  exclamation.  It 
was  maddening  that  he  should  be  so  silent.    For  a  long 

226 


DRIFT 

time  he  had  not  come  to  her  dressing-room  to  say  good- 
night. Even  that  shadowy  little  remembrance  of  their 
early  intimacy  had  ceased.  How?  Why?  She  could 
not  tell.  She  wondered  if  perhaps  John  longed  for  her 
and  would  not  speak  or  if  perhaps — but  no,  he  had 
always  cared  for  her ;  he  would  be  the  lover  again  if  she 
should  make  a  sign.  And  Thorne?  What  would  she 
say  to  him?  As  in  the  days  long  ago  in  Paris,  she  felt 
his  power,  knew  that  he  would  not  wait  long  for  an 
answer.  She  stopped  under  a  lamp,  took  out  a  small 
mirror  from  her  hand-bag  and  looked  at  herself,  gravely, 
consideringly.  So  that  was  the  face  that  had  such 
power  over  men, — that  thin  oval,  with  upslanting  eyes. 
"What  is  it?"  she  said  to  herself,  and  smiled. 

The  thought  of  Clara,  gay  and  domestic,  arose  in 
her  mind;  the  funny  little  red  figures  of  the  children, 
their  noisy  possessive  greeting, — fat,  sleepy  Toddles. 
What  did  one  gain,  what  lose?  It  was  very  puzzling. 
She  put  the  mirror  away  and  walked  on,  her  thoughts 
turning  to  John  and  then  to  Thorne, — the  two  men  who 
loved  her.  What  right  had  Thorne  to  treat  her  as  he 
had,  to  be  so  imperious?  He  had  said  that  they  must 
decide.  Well,  he  could  go  from  her  if  he  was  dis- 
contented, she  knew  he  would  come  back.  She  laughed 
a  little  to  herself  as  she  threw  back  her  head 
and  faced  the  storm.  Men  always  did  as  she  wanted; 
Thorne  would  in  the  end;  they  were  doing  nothing 
wrong,  harming  no  one.  Why  shpuld  they  not  be 
happy? 

Finally  she  found  herself  at  the  end  of  the  park  and 
hungry;  a  car  took  her  home.  On  the  hall  table  was 
the  letter  of  which  Thorne  had  spoken.  "Please  be  at 
home  tomorrow  afternoon.  There  are  important  things 
to  be  decided.  I  must  see  you.  I  love  you,  love  you, 
love  you!" 

227 


DRIFT 

She  took  the  note  upstairs,  stretched  herself  before 
the  wood  fire  in  her  dressing-room  and  read  it  over. 
"I  must  see  you!  I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you!"  She 
had  a  delicious  sense  of  ease  and  excitement.  "Let 
Clara  and  her  babies  go,"  she  thought;  "I  have  my 
lover  1" 


CHAPTER  X&V 

WHAT  was  it  Thorne  wanted  to  say  to  her?  Why 
had  he  spoken  in  such  a  peculiar  way  at  the 
bazaar  ?  Eileen  had  a  sense  of  foreboding.  She  knew  a 
crisis  was  coming  in  their  relationship;  she  did  not 
know  how  to  meet  it.  Of  late  their  meetings  had  been 
troubled  and  unhappy  until  that  wonderful  evening, — 
could  she  ever  forget  it  ?  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands, 
shutting  out  the  scene  about  her,  thrilled  with  the  mem- 
ory of  his  touch.  Now  he  was  coming.  What  should  she 
do?  She  remembered  her  dismay  at  his  telegram  of 
long  ago,  "May  I  hope?"  Now  they  had  come  close,— 
what  would  be? 

As  she  sat  and  thought,  she  knew  that  Thorne  had 
become  a  necessity  in  her  life.  She  tried  to  imagine 
what  the  days  would  be  without  him.  His  presence,  his 
letters,  his  caress  were  the  stimulus  upon  which  she 
lived.  Remove  them  and  she  could  not  go  on.  Then 
she  asked  herself,  "What  do  I  give  him?"  Her  life  with 
John  was  so  strange,  she  had  never  asked  that  question 
of  herself  before.  John  was  sufficient  unto  himself,  he 
had  not  needed  her  for  along  time.  He  was  always 
kind,  he  loved  her  more  than  she  deserved;  why  had 
they  missed  the  way?  And  Thorne?  Tomorrow  he 
would  come,  she  would  be  in  his  arms !  She  remembered 
what  he  had  said  to  her,  "I  was  the  humblest  of  wor- 
shippers, your  love  makes  me  a  god."    What  was  com- 

229 


DRIFT 

ing?  What  was  coming?  Tomorrow  would  be  fateful; 
let  it  not  take  this  wonderful  love  from  her  life ! 

As  Thorne  entered,  Eileen  knew  their  hour  of  happi- 
ness was  over.  She  reached  out  to  him  and  he  came 
and  held  her;  gravely  at  first,  trying  to  meet  her 
eyes  with  the  question  in  his  own,  then  with  the  quick 
possessive  tightening  of  the  arms  she  longed  for. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  kiss  you,"  he  said,  letting  her  go. 
' '  Please  sit  down  over  there.  There  are  things  that  must 
be  said  between  us  two."  Eileen  obeyed  and  waited 
while  Thorne  stared  at  the  fire. 

"It's  difficult  to  put  into  words,"  he  said,  "but  I 
want  to  do  so.  You  know  this  can't  go  on — this  way, 
I  mean?"  He  looked  at  her  again  gravely,  question- 
ingly.  "Eileen,  I  love  you,  I  want  you,  what's  to  be 
done?" 

Everything  in  her  leaped  to  the  man's  words.  "And 
I  want  you,"  she  said,  and  again  her  arms  reached  out 
for  his  clasp,  but  something  had  arisen  now  that  would 
not  be  stilled  with  kisses.  She  saw  that  he  would  not 
touch  her  again  until  some  answer  had  been  made  to 
his  question. 

"I  think  I  knew  this  was  coming,"  Eileen  said. 

"And  what  have  you  thought  about  it?"  Thorne 
went  on.    ' '  What  do  you  want  to  do  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  Eileen  broke  in. 
1 ■  What  can  I  do  ?  When  I  am  in  your  arms,  anything, 
everything  seems  possible.  When  I  am  away  from  you 
I  am  afraid.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  What  are 
you  asking  of  me?" 

Thorne  came  then  and  stood  over  her.  "Don't  be 
childish,  Eileen,"  he  said.  "You  know  what  I  want. 
I  want  you,  you,  you !  Do  you  hear  me?  I  want  you  in 
my  arms  at  night,  I  want  you  by  my  side  in  the  daytime, 
I  want  you  waiting  for  me  when  I  come  home  at  night, 
I  want  to  feel  you  near,  to  turn  to  you  and  touch  you 

230 


ROBERT  THORNE 


DRIFT 

when  I  awaken  in  the  morning.  I  want  our  lives  to  be 
together.  Oh,  Eileen,  love  isn't  only  passion;  think  of 
the  hours  we've  spent  together,  talking,  reaching  out  to 
each  other's  hearts  and  minds — that's  what  I  want, 
only — there's  no  use  pretending,  is  there?  I  want  first 
of  all  your  love,  your  passion,  your  giving  of  yourself. 
I  came  today  determined  to  say  this.  I  can't  go  on  this 
way — hiding,  fearful  of  discovery.  It's  intolerable! 
Don't  you  see  it  can't  go  on?  What  have  you  to  say? 
You  want  me  as  I  want  you,  it  lies  in  your  hands, — 
what  shall  be  done,  tell  me?" 

Something  in  the  way  Thorne  spoke  told  her  more 
than  his  words,  that  he  had  come  to  a  determination  to 
which  she  must  yield.  If  he  would  only  take  her  in 
his  arms,  only  hold  her  while  they  talked,  she  knew  that 
she  could  put  off  decision,  but  he  stood  in  front  of  her 
quietly  waiting. 

"You  mean,  go  away  together?"  she  said. 

"Not  necessarily,"  he  answered.  "You  and  your 
husband  must  have  discussed  divorce.  You  don't  seem 
to  understand.  I  want  you  with  me;  I  want  you  for 
my  wife.  Heaven  knows  the  ceremony  means  little, 
but  it's  the  way  we  seem  to  have  arranged  matters.  I 
can't  ask  you  to  come  to  me  and  be  cut  off  from  everyone 
else,  can  I?" 

"I  can't  get  a  divorce  from  John,"  Eileen  murmured ; 
she  seemed  slipping  away  before  this  terrible  simplicity. 
i '  I  haven 't  any  reason,  and  he  would  not  consent,  and  I 
think  I  haven't  the  courage."  The  words  came  slowly 
and  Thome's  face  changed. 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  demanded, 
"Surely  you've  asked  yourself  that  question.  I  tell  you 
I  want  you.  If  you'll  come  to  me  without  a  divorce, 
well  and  good,  only  for  God's  sake  think  it  over,  know 
what  you're  doing.  You  love  me,  but  do  you  love  me 
enough  to  give  up  everything  else?    You  must  under- 

231 


DRIFT 

stand  the  ostracism,  the  humiliation,  that  such  a  course 
means.  For  myself,  I  don't  care,  but  for  you — oh, 
Eileen,  Eileen,  I  couldn't  let  you  do  that;  1  couldn't! 
(To  see  you  hurt,  looked  at  askance.  My  dear,  it  would 
be  unbearable  !" 

"It  seems  insignificant  when  compared  with  being  with 
you,"  Eileen  rejoined,  but  she  knew  Thome  was  right; 
she  had  no  courage  for  that. 

There  was  a  silence,  and  when  Thorne  spoke  again, 
there  was  a  different  note  in  his  voice.  "Child!"  he 
said,  "little  child!  That's  how  you  seem  to  me.  I 
want  to  take  you  in  my  arms  and  take  care  of  you,  as 
I  wanted  to  so  long  ago,  just  love  and  protect  you  and 
make  you  happy,  and  yet  I  have  to  ask  you  to  do  this 
hard  thing;  but  don't  you  see,  dear,  it's  the  only  way? 
There's  no  happiness  ahead  for  us  unless  we  have  the 
courage  to  find  what  we  want,  to  take  it,  to  carve  a 
pathway.  You  and  your  husband  are  not  married. 
It's  a  mockery  the  way  you  live.  The  first  day  when 
I  asked  if  you  were  happy  I  knew  that  you  were  not  and 
that  you  were  hiding  it.  One  can  tell  these  things.  If 
you  had  been  happy  there  would  have  been  no  room 
for  me;  I  should  have  gone  away  after  that  first  call. 
If  I  hadn't  known  this,  felt  it  by  the  way  you  turned 
to  me,  I  couldn't  have  taken  you  in  my  arms,  couldn't 
have  loved  you  as  I  do  love  you.  We  know  it's  all  right 
between  us  two,  that  it  had  to  be,  but  I  want  it  to  be 
all  right  to  others  too.  I  don't  want  to  lie  about  the 
sacredest  thing  in  my  life,  and  I  can't  be  content  with 
seeing  you  occasionally;  I  want  all  of  you,  all  your 
sweetness,  all  your  time,  all  of  yourself. ' ' 

Eileen  was  crying.  What  could  she  say,  what  could 
she  do?  She  couldn't  do  what  he  asked,  she  had  not 
the  courage.  Stammeringly  she  tried  to  tell  him  of  her 
humiliation,  of  her  fears,  but  he  was  intent  on  some- 
thing more  that  he  wanted  to  say. 

232 


DRIFT 

He  took  her  hands.  "Eileen,  there's  something  I 
want  you  to  know  before  we  say  any  more.  Yon  ought 
to  know  all  of  me  before  you  decide.  I  think  I  have 
never  stopped  loving  you — I  wish  I  could  tell  you  now 
that  I  had  been  faithful  to  the  memory  of  those  weeks 
in  Paris,  but  I  am  thirty-five  and  one  doesn't  live  that 
long  without  caring  pretty  deeply,  perhaps  more  than 
once.  I've  made  the  usual  experiments,  one  that  re- 
sulted rather  badly  and  hurt;  it  was  a  good  while  ago 
and  it  is  wholly  in  the  past,  but  I  can  say  this  to  you, 
there  is  something  different  now.  As  I  look  backwards 
I  can  see  those  others  were — well — perhaps  experiments 
is  as  good  a  word  as  any.  I  thought  I  loved  you  in 
Paris,  but  now  what  I  felt  then  seems  to  me  a  boy's 
love,  strong  and  passionate,  but  wanting  only  one  thing 
— possession.  Now,  I  want  more,  oh,  so  much  more! 
I  want  you  with  me  always,  I  want  home,  I  want  chil- 
dren, our  children.  I  suppose  it  is  something  funda- 
mental that  rises  in  us  as  we  grow  older.  We  know 
that  we  shall  die,  and  we  want  to  leave  our  successor,  our 
representative.  Oh,  Eileen,  I  think  if  I  could  see  my 
child  in  your  arms  I  should  not  ask  anything  more  of 
life,  or  of  God." 

Eileen  turned  from  him  with  a  sharp  cry. 

"What  have  I  said?"  Thorne  was  bewildered. 
' '  What  is  it  ?  Dear,  tell  me  why  you  are  troubled — what 
have  I  done?  Isn't  that  what  you  want  too?  Isn't  it? 
You  would  be  happy,  wouldn't  you,  if  that  could  be?" 

"Pmso  tired ! ' '  Eileen  pleaded,  ' ' so  terribly  tired !  I 
can't  talk  any  more,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you." 

"But  you  must  have  thought  it  out  before  I  came. 
I  don't  want  to  press  you,  but  surely  you  have  some 
plan,  some  answer?  You  knew  you  were  not  playing, 
didn't  you — at  least  after  last  week?  I  can't  make  it 
out,  I  don't  understand!  When  you  were  in  my  arms, 
when  you  gave  me  your  lips,  wasn't  that  a  promise? 

233 


DRIFT 

What  else  could  it  be.  You're  not  going  to  tell  me  now 
that  you  can't  come  to  me?  Eileen,  don't  do  that — I 
know  it's  hard.  I  know  there  are  all  kinds  of  difficulties, 
but  I'll  wait,  I'll  do  anything  if  you'll  only  trust  me,  if 
you  will  have  the  courage.  Say  you  will !  Say  we  shall 
be  together!"  He  had  her  in  his  arms  now,  pleading, 
frightened,  all  his  sureness  of  tone  gone.  "Eileen! 
Eileen ! ' '  He  held  her  from  him  and  tried  to  make  her 
look  at  him.  "Eileen!  why  don't  you  speak?  Tell  me, 
why  don't  you?"  and  Eileen,  sobbing,  could  only  beg 
him  to  let  her  think — to  give  her  a  little  time. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  assented,  "all  the  time  you 
wish.  I'll  go  away,  I'll  do  anything;  only  tell  me  now 
that  you  will  find  a  way,  that  you  love  me  enough  to  do 
this  thing  for  me.  That  is  all  I  ask  now — but  I  must 
know  that,  don't  you  see  that  I  must?" 

As  he  held  her,  Eileen  longed  to  give  him  the  promise 
he  asked  for.  Everything  in  her  seemed  to  cry  out  for 
the  comfort  of  his  presence,  his  care  for  her— and  yet — 
and  yet — oh,  why  couldn't  they  be  happy  as  they  had 
been,  why  couldn't  her  love  her  and  be  with  her  and  not 
ask  her  to  break  up  everything  in  her  life?  In  her 
heart  she  knew  she  would  not  do  this,  yet  what  would 
life  be  without  Thorne? 

He  let  her  go  and  turned  from  her.  "I  think  I  have 
said  everything  there  is  to  be  said.  It  is  for  you  to 
decide.  I  cannot  beg,  I  will  not.  If  you  come  to  me,  I 
shall  do  everything  in  my  power  for  the  rest  of  my  life 
to  make  you  happy.  If  you  do  not  come,  I  shall  not  see 
you  again." 

He  had  spoken  the  words  she  dreaded.  "I  will  go 
now,"  he  said.    "What  word  have  you  for  me?" 

"Will  you  come  back  tomorrow?  I  want  time  to 
think." 

"You  have  had  time,"  he  said,  "and  I  see  now  that 
you  have  thought  it  over  and  you  have  decided — against 

234 


DRIFT 

me.  What  use  would  it  be  for  me  to  come  back  unless 
you  tell  me  now  that  you  will  help  me  find  a  way  for 
us  to  come  together?  That  is  all  I  am  asking  you  now, 
but  you  make  me  understand  that  you  will  not  do  this. 
I  came  today,  full  of  faith.  I  was  determined  that  we 
must  be  frank,  must  talk  over  our  situation  and  decide 
together  what  should  be  done.  Gradually  that  faith  has 
faded.  I  think  that  you  love  me,  but  you  do  not  love 
me  enough.  Well,  I  shall  have  to  find  some  way  of 
bearing  that  knowledge.  Will  you  tell  me  before  I  go 
what  you  do  want?" 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  for  the  first  time  without 
any  desire,  any  kindling.  It  was  as  if  her  lack  of  re- 
sponse had  shown  her  to  him  in  a  new  light  to  which  he 
must  accustom  himself,  to  see  clearly.  It  came  over 
her  that  this  man  who  loved  her  might  come  to  look 
upon  her  with  different  eyes. 

"You  are  hard!"  she  said,  "hard!  You  ask  me  to 
come  to  you,  to  give  up  everything  for  you,  to  hurt  my 
husband,  to  cause  misery  and  distress  to  others,  and 
because  I  hesitate,  because  I  want  time  to  think,  you 
doubt  my  love  for  you." 

"Were  you  surprised  at  what  I  have  said  today?"  he 
asked.  "I  think  that  you  were  not.  I  think  that  you 
knew  what  was  coming  and  that  you  had  already  de- 
cided— to  do  nothing." 

Again  the  man's  words  showed  her  his  thought  of 
her, — of  the  course  she  had  pursued.  "I  love  you!  I 
love  you!"  she  cried.  "Don't  leave  me,  take  me  in 
your  arms!  I'll  do  anything  you  wish,  only  give  me 
time!"    But  Thorne  made  no  move  towards  her. 

"Do  you  mean  what  you  say?"  he  asked.  "I  did  not 
expect  to  have  to  beg  for  your  consent.  I  thought  that 
was  given  when  we  were  together  that  night  last  week, 
when  we  knew  we  loved  each  other — but  today  has 
shaken  my  faith.    I  am  afraid  that  you  don't  want  me, 

235 


DRIFT 

I  mean  as  I  want  you,  that  you  aren't  willing  to  give  up 
anything  for  my  sake.  Are  you?  It  would  be  ghastly 
to  have  you  come  and  then — regret."  All  the  joy  that 
had  lighted  his  face  when  he  came  had  gone.  He  spoke 
now  dully,  his  words  falling  with  extreme  slowness.  "I 
think  perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  went  on,  "we  had 
better  not  talk  any  more  now.  Perhaps  I  have  pressed 
you  too  hard.  I  have  no  wish  to  do  that — I  suppose  I 
took  too  much  for  granted;  after  what  came  to  us  my 
thoughts  travelled  far  and  swiftly,  but  I  will  try  and  be 
patient.  You  can  think  over  what  I  have  said.  I  will 
not  urge,  you  must  decide  alone  without  my  presence. 
From  the  way  you  spoke  just  now,  I  realise  it 
was  an  impulse  that  made  you  consent,  not  some- 
thing that  you  had  decided  was  necessary  and  inevita- 
ble. I  can't  let  you  act  on  impulse,  this  is  too  big,  it 
is  our  whole  lives  we  are  deciding,  and  we  must  do  it 
clearly.  I  think  that  I  had  better  go  now ;  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said,  is  there  ?  If  you  really  decide,  send  for 
me.  Otherwise,  I  shall  not  come.  But  remember,  if 
you  do  send,  it  will  be  definite;  I  cannot  come  to  you 
again — like  this." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  and  then  left  her  without 
touching  her.  It  was  as  if  he  had  no  real  thought  of 
seeing  her  again,  and  this  was  his  farewell! 

Eileen  sat  as  he  left  her,  motionless.  She  was  hardly 
thinking.  It  seemed  to  her  she  could  bear  no  more. 
She  had  had  a  little  happiness  and  now  it  was  over,  for 
she  knew  she  would  not  go  to  him,  and  he  would  have 
no  alternative.  What  was  it  he  had  said — "If  I  could 
see  a  child  of  mine  in  your  arms  I  would  ask  no 
more  of  life — or  of  God.  We  know  that  we  are 
going  to  die,  and  we  want  our  successor — our  repre- 
sentative." So,  it  was  not  herself  he  wanted  most! 
She  was  angry  at  the  bitter  riddle.  Was  it  necessary 
that  she  should  bear  again  all  those  months  of  weary 

236 


DRIFT 

misery?  No,  no,  she  could  not — and  she  could  not  give 
up  all  she  had.  Her  world,  foolish  as  it  was, — she  was 
important  in  it,  its  flattery  was  sweet.  And  John? 
What  would  he  say  if  suddenly,  out  of  the  courtesy  and 
freedom  of  their  peculiar  relationship,  she  should  go  to 
him  and  say,  "I  want  a  divorce.' '  No,  she  could  not,  she 
could  not ;  but  what  would  the  days  be  without  Thorne, 
without  those  hours  spent  with  him  that  illumined  all 
the  rest? 

It  was  nearly  eight  when  she  heard  John  let  himself 
in  and  go  upstairs  to  dress.  She  remembered  there 
were  guests  coming  and  hurried  to  her  room. 

Late  that  night  she  wrote  a  note  to  Thorne.  "I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  Do  not  doubt  me,  come  to  me."  As 
early  as  possible  the  next  morning  she  rang  to  have  it 
sent.  A  half  hour  later  she  received  one  from  him 
and  tore  it  open  thinking  it  an  answer.  "I 
have  been  thinking  all  night/ '  it  read,  "and  I  know 
that  you  do  not  love  me.  I  have  fought  back  the  knowl- 
edge, but  in  going  over  your  words  I  can  no  longer 
cheat  myself  with  the  hope  that  you  will  come.  I  could 
make  you ;  perhaps,  ten  years  ago  I  would  have  tried  to, 
but  now  I  cannot  risk  your  regrets.  I  am  leaving  for 
California  at  once.  I  want  to  remember  the  golden 
hours  we  have  had  together,  when  I  thought  there  was 
hope.    Kobert." 

She  made  enquiries  as  to  her  note.  "It  has  just  come 
back,"  the  maid  said.  "James  said  the  gentleman  had 
gone  away  and  to  ask  you  what  he  was  to  do," 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

WHEN  Spencer  Crockett  saluted  young  Love  by  a 
kiss  on  Helen  Tucker's  brow  that  March  afternoon 
in  Eileen's  drawing-room,  his  feeling  was  one  of  awe 
and  fear.  "She  is  too  sure,  too  happy,' '  he  said  to 
himself  afterwards.  "It  is  defying  the  gods;  they  will 
be  cruel.' ' 

Had  Helen  known  of  his  fear,  as,  at  that  same  hour 
she  sat  hand  in  hand  with  her  lover  on  the  crowded  su- 
burban train,  she  would  have  laughed,  yet  that  night, 
that  radiant  night,  was  the  happiest  one  she  was  to 
know.  Next  day  there  had  come  the  warning, — the 
letter  from  Anna  Lee,  and  although  after  that  Helen 
knew  happiness,  never  again  could  she  be  wholly  free 
from  fear. 

Spencer  Crockett  saw  her  seldom  during  the  next  few 
years.  Their  paths  did  not  naturally  cross,  but  he  often 
had  news  of  her  from  Eileen  and  remembered  his  sense 
of  foreboding.  Something  that  he  did  not  know  was 
possible  to  him  stirred  in  his  elderly  heart :  was  it  love  ? 
He  did  not  know,  he  knew  only  that  he  longed  with  a 
passionate  desire  to  save  her  from  pain  and  suffered  be- 
cause he  could  not. 

Helen  and  Augustus  Lee  were  married  a  month  after 
the  night  of  the  walk  by  the  sea,  the  night  she  had 

238 


DRIFT 

looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  rejoicing  that  she  belonged 
to  him.  After  Anna  Lee's  letter,  Helen  had  been  de- 
sirous the  marriage  should  take  place  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. Happiness  should  save  Gus;  she  longed  to  give  it 
to  him. 

Martha  Tucker  had  some  savings,  Gus's  father  and 
mother  made  an  allowance,  a  small  apartment,  far  up- 
town, was  possible;  they  thought  it  heaven  and  asked 
no  more. 

Eileen  Templeton's  wedding  gifts  had  been  numer- 
ous and  odd.  One  of  them  was  the  wedding  journey. 
On  account  of  the  expense  they  decided  to  have  none, 
which  Eileen  said  was  "terrible."  She  had  other  plans 
for  them,  nice  plans,  proper  plans.  If  one  may  give 
objects,  silly,  costly  objects  of  wood  and  metal  and 
stone,  why  should  one  not  give  a  little  happiness  ?  Helen 
and  Gus  regarded  her  helplessly.  When  Eileen  took  to 
her  method  of  special  pleading,  it  was  always  difficult 
for  those  to  whom  she  addressed  her  reasonable  re- 
marks. She  would  love,  she  said,  to  think  of  them  for 
a  month  in  some  lovely  place,  far,  far  off.  There  must 
be  a  river  and  a  wood  of  course,  or  would  the  sea  be 
more  to  their  liking?  For  herself,  she  hated  the  sea,  it 
was  so  melancholy;  she  hoped  they  would  like  a  river 
and  the  deep,  deep  woods.  Did  thoughts  come  to  her 
of  those  first  weeks  at  the  Farm,  when  she  and  John 
had  been  happy? 

She  had  her  wish.  For  a  month,  at  a  little  inn  in  the 
midst  of  a  "deep,  deep  wood/'  the  lovers  forgot  the 
world  in  a  dream  of  happiness.  One  month  of  supreme 
happiness  Helen  Tucker  had — joy  such  as  the  gods  give 
to  their  chosen  ones;  it  was  to  be  followed  by  years  of 
pain, — the  pain  that  is  known  to  those  who  love  under 
the  shadow  of  fear. 

At  a  later  time,  when  they  asked  her  questions,  Helen 
could  not  remember  when  her  first  anxiety  was  aroused. 

339 


DRIFT 

If  was  all  so  vague,  so  uncertain.  She  took  herself  to 
task  for  the  doubt. 

It  was  near  the  time  for  their  return  when  Gus  went 
to  sleep  one  afternoon  after  lunch  and  Helen  could  not 
rouse  him.  He  wanted  to  be  let  alone,  he  said,  please 
to  go  away.  She  sat  in  the  sitting-room  of  the  inn  and 
waited,  hour  after  hour,  but  he  did  not  come.  Towards 
evening,  she  stole  out  to  their  "trysting  place.' '  They 
had  a  lovers'  game  of  pretending  to  meet  by  stealth  at 
the  " Great  Oak"  or  the  " Haunted  Elm"  while  angry 
parents  pursued  to  capture  and  sunder  them. 

She  sat  down  to  think  it  out.  Was  this  it?  She  had 
no  name  for  the  shadowy  horror. 

In  the  morning  Gus  was  as  usual, — adoring  and  gay. 
She  was  afraid  he  would  think  that  she  had  wondered 
and  made  various  laughing  allusions  to  his  " laziness" 
and  how  lonesome  she  had  been. 

Long  afterwards  he  told  her  that  during  the  months 
immediately  succeeding  their  marriage  he  had  fought 
with  all  his  strength  to  keep  down  the  desire  for  the 
drug  and  that  fear  lest  she  discover  his  weakness 
constantly  haunted  him.  "When  they  were  engaged 
he  had  promised  himself  that  he  would  stop,  he  knew 
that  he  could  if  the  incentive  were  strong  enough; 
he  loved  her,  if  she  were  with  him  he  had  believed  that 
he  could  prevail  over  the  longing  that  beset  him.  If 
he  had  not  believed  this,  he  would  not  have  let  her 
marry  him ;  but  this  he  said  at  a  later  period,  when  he 
was  undergoing  profound  abasement. 

She  must  have  acted  well,  she  thought,  to  deceive  him, 
for  she  knew  from  the  first.  There  was  not  a  shadow 
that  crossed  her  husband's  face,  not  a  thought  in  his 
mind,  that  did  not  react  to  the  uttermost  core  of  the 
woman  who  loved  him. 

For  a  time  there  was  happiness  in  the  little  apart- 
ment.   It  was  only  at  intervals  that  the  drug  took  pos- 

240 


DRIFT 

session  of  him.  Helen  gave  reasons  to  herself  for  any- 
thing that  he  did  that  was  strange,  constantly  struggling 
to  push  back  knowledge,  refusing  to  let  it  in.  Gus  was 
tired,  every  man  was  irritable  when  he  was  tired;  what 
if  he  did  not  come  home  sometimes,  resenting  her  alarm 
at  his  absence;  were  men  to  give  an  account  to  their 
wives  of  every  moment  of  their  time?  So  it  was  she 
tried  to  still  the  aching  sense  of  fear. 

They  had  been  married  a  little  less  than  a  year  when 
Constance  came,  tiny  Constance  with  her  blue  eyes  and 
jwistful  face.  Father  and  mother  watched  over  the  deli- 
cate life  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  anxiety,  until  it  gradually 
nickered  into  a  steadier  flame  than  seemed  possible  at 
first. 

For  some  months  after  the  baby's  birth  Helen  was 
more  at  ease  about  Gus.  For  a  long  time  she  was  sure 
he  had  kept  the  hateful  desire  away,  or  at  least  had  not 
fielded  to  it.  He  could  not  have  been  more  tender  and 
his  pride  and  delight  in  the  child  were  a  joy  that  made 
(Helen's  eyes  shine.  He  would  come  running  up  the 
two  flights  of  stairs  that  led  to  the  apartment,  banging 
open  the  door  with  a  '  *  Hello !  hello !  where  are  my  two  ? '  ? 

Helen  was  happy,  radiantly  happy.  She  was  more 
beautiful  than  she  had  ever  been.  Could  Spencer 
Crockett  have  seen  her  then,  he  would  have  kissed 
her  twice.  She  believed  that  the  trouble  was  over  for- 
ever, that  happiness  had  conquered.  For  a  little  time 
the  world  was  fair,  then  came  the  storm  that  racked 
and  tore  and  beat  upon  everything  about  her  till  she 
seemed  to  cower  among  ruins. 

Constance  had  been  ailing.  She  was  so  delicate  that 
the  slightest  indisposition  made  Helen's  heart  stop  with 
fear.  The  child  was  fretful  and  neither  she  nor  the 
young  nurse  girl  could  still  her  little  moaning  cry. 
Gus  had  been  "irritable"  in  the  evening  and  very 
exacting.    Because  of  her  anxiety  about  the  child,  Helen 

241 


DEIPT 

had  answered  sharply,  asking  him  not  to  speak  to  her 
again.  He  had  left  her  then  to  go  to  bed  and  she 
carried  the  baby  into  the  kitchen  so  that  he  should  not 
be  disturbed. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  he  came  in  search  of  her, 
his  face  sullen.  "You'll  wear  yourself  out,"  he  said, 
"let  Annie  take  her.    I  want  you." 

"No,  no,  Gus,  please  go  back  to  bed,"  she  said,  "I'll 
come  in  a  little  while.    She  has  fever,  I'm  frightened." 

"I  tell  you  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said  and  his 
eyes  were  hot.  "You  must  come.  I  can 't  sleep  with  that 
everlasting  howling  going  on,  there's  something  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about — for  Heaven's  sake,  can't  you  stop 
it?"  He  almost  shouted  as  the  child's  wail  mingled  with 
his  words.  He  tried  to  take  her  from  Helen's  arms 
to  give  her  to  Annie. 

Every  instinct  in  the  mother  rose;  she  held  the  child 
close.  "I  will  not  come!"  she  said.  They  stood  facing 
each  other;  the  young  nurse  girl  shrank  back,  terrified. 

Gus  stared  at  her ;  his  eyes  grew  narrow  and  cunning. 
"There's  music  in  our  room,"  he  said,  "queer  music, 
it  comes  from  everywhere,  all  around,  from  under  the 
furniture,  it  mixes  with  the  crying,  I  can't  sleep.  I  want 
you  to  come  to  see  if  you  can  hear  it. ' ' 

She  followed  him  then,  aghast ;  Gus  had  said  strange 
things  before,  but  never  anything  like  this.  She  lay 
down  by  him  and  talked  to  him,  telling  him  that  he  was 
tired,  that  the  child's  crying  made  him  nervous  and 
imaginative, — perhaps  there  had  been  someone  playing 
a  piano  somewhere  and  it  came  through  his  dreams. 

"No,  no!"  Gus  protested,  "I  wasn't  asleep,  I  couldn't 
sleep,  I  heard  it  all, — all  around, — it  came  from  every- 
where and  it  wouldn't  stop, — it  was  terrible  music." 
He  hid  his  face,  putting  his  hands  over  his  ears. 

"Foolish,  foolish  boy!"  she  spoke  as  she  spoke  to 
Constance,  "go  to  sleep  now  anyway,  I'm  right  here." 

242 


DRIFT 

He  fell  asleep  at  last,  holding  her  hand  while  she 
lay,  hour  after  hour,  looking  into  the  dark.  Every  now 
and  then  she  would  hear  Constance's  cry  and  Annie's 
voice  crooning;  would  the  girl  keep  her  warm  and 
remember  the  medicine  at  four  o'clock? 

Gus  turned  in  his  sleep  and  groaned  as  if  in  pain. 
She  tried  to  loosen  her  hand  as  he  moved,  but  he  clung 
to  her.  "Helen!  Helen!"  he  said,  "Helen!  Help  me, 
oh  help  me!    I'm  so  far  away." 

All  the  next  day  he  lay  in  a  kind  of  troubled  stupor ; 
it  was  far  worse  than  ever  before.  Helen  asked  the 
doctor  who  came  to  see  Constance  to  go  in  to  see  him 
and  was  terrified  after  she  had  made  the  request. 

There  was  little  said.  Gus,  after  an  angry  look  and 
a  muttered  protest,  made  no  further  sign  that  he  heard. 
The  doctor  asked  a  few  questions,  looking  keenly  at  her. 
Gus  lay  quiet,  his  face  turned  away,  his  lips  drawn. 
Helen's  heart  bled  for  him;  the  shame  of  acknowledg- 
ment was  as  bitter  to  her  as  to  him. 

That  night  they  had  a  long  talk.  He  begged  Helen 
to  help  him,  to  have  faith  in  him,  to  give  him  faith; 
without  her  he  could  do  nothing;  with  her,  he  could 
conquer  it,  he  knew  he  could — because  she  loved  him. 
Over  and  over  he  asked  her  to  tell  him  that  she  loved 
him.  What  had  he  said  the  night  that  Constance 
cried?  Would  she  forgive  him?  Never,  never  could 
he  forgive  himself.  He  loved  her  so,  she  and  Con- 
stance were  his  world,  his  whole  world. 

She  soothed  him  as  she  could;  it  was  awful  to  her 
to  be  the  witness  of  his  shame.  An  immense  desire 
to  battle  with  him  and  for  him,  to  make  him  conquer 
because  of  her  help,  arose  within  her. 

He  drew  her  to  him.  "Helen,  Helen,"  he  cried, 
"don't  stop  loving  me,  don't  give  me  up!  I  need  you 
so!"  She  held  his  head  to  her  breast.  Over  and  over 
she  told  him  of  her  faith  in  him,  her  perfect  faith.    They 

243 


DEIFT 

were  so  happy,  they  loved  each  other  so,  it  would  be 
all  right,  this  dreadful  thing  must  not  be  let  come  in. 

They  talked  for  a  long  time,  clinging  to  each  other. 
Gus  told  her  how  he  had  tried,  how  he  had  struggled 
to  keep  from  taking  it,  to  keep  her  from  seeing  the 
effect ;  the  relief,  oh  the  relief,  to  have  her  know,  to  have 
her  help !  He  did  not  know,  nor  did  he  ever  know,  that 
her  first  discovery  had  not  been  that  night. 

They  arranged  a  plan.  She  was  to  have  charge  of 
the  morphia.  Gus  was  to  have  a  certain  amount,  de- 
creasing slowly.  He  was  to  come  to  her  for  the  injec- 
tion and  she  was  to  control  the  dose.  The  doctor,  who 
had  spent  anxious  thought  upon  the  difficulty  of  the 
new  "case"  presented  to  him,  was  doubtful,  but  Helen 
was  sure  it  would  be  possible. 

Helen  opened  the  little  case  Gus  brought  her  and  took 
out  the  needle, — so  that  was  her  enemy,  that  tiny  thing ! 
It  seemed  incredible  it  could  work  such  harm ;  she  locked 
it  away. 

It  was  only  a  little  while  afterwards  that  she  saw  Gus 
one  night  put  his  arm  quickly  behind  him,  to  hide  the 
little  scar  she  had  not  made.  Conquering  her  fear,  she 
took  hold  of  his  wrist  and  laid  her  finger  on  the  place, 
looking  at  him  for  explanation. 

"You're  a  fool!"  he  said,  and  pulled  away. 

Next  day  came  the  agony  of  shame,  the  despair,  the 
outpouring  to  her  of  the  thoughts  that  tortured  him. 
If  only  he  could  die  before  she  grew  to  hate  him.  Would 
she  always  remember  that  he  loved  her?  She  must  not 
doubt  that,  whatever  came.  He  muttered  the  words, 
"And  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves,  by  all  let  me 
be  heard.  The  coward  does  it  with  a  kiss.  The  brave 
man  with  a  sword!"  He  laughed  loudly  and  ended 
with  a  groan.  "It's  a  damn  bad  rhyme,  but  it's  true! 
It's  true!" 

Sometimes  there  would  be  weeks  together  when  she 

244 


DEIFT 

knew  he  was  struggling ;  she  could  see  the  marks  of  the 
effort  on  his  face,  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her,  dumbly. 
Passionately  as  she  desired  to  help  him  she  could  do 
little;  he  resented  any  allusion.  She  had  given  up  her 
custodianship  of  the  little  instrument,  it  was  no  use. 

For  one  thing  Helen  was  profoundly  thankful — her 
mother  did  not  know.  Gus  seemed  to  have  a  power  of 
pulling  himself  together,  of  appearing  natural  when 
other  people  were  about,  that  he  could  not  sustain  when 
they  were  alone.  She  did  not  guess  how  maiiy  there 
were  who  watched  with  aching  hearts  her  efforts  to  con- 
ceal her  trouble.  Martha  Tucker  came  often,  but  it  was 
in  the  day  time,  when  Gus  was  at  the  office.  She  believed 
Helen  supremely  happy.    Her  prayer  was  answered. 

Helen  thought  of  the  phrase  "possessed  by  a  devil.,, 
It  seemed  as  if  there  were  an  alien  presence  of  incred- 
ible malignity,  outside  of,  working  independently  of  its 
victim,  always  watching  its  chance.  At  times  this  "pres- 
ence" was  strong  enough  to  enter  in  and  give  battle,  to 
defeat  all  that  had  been  her  husband.  At  such  times 
the  Gus  she  knew  would  vanish,  he  would  be  changed 
to  another  person,  possessed  and  evil.  After  awful  dis- 
tress the  "devil  was  cast  out"  and  Gus  would  return 
to  her.  Then  there  was  no  one  in  the  world  like  him, — 
the  passionately  tender  lover,  the  gay  companion,  the 
beautiful,  joyous  faun.  In  spite  of  all,  there  were 
happy  times. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

STAMPED  upon  her  brain,  influencing  for  months 
her  every  thought,  Helen  was  to  remember  the 
afternoon  on  which  she  told  Gus  she  was  going  to  have 
another  child.  Constance  had  been  fretful  and  Helen 
was  weary  trying  to  distract  and  amuse  her.  She 
longed  for  Gus  to  come  home,  longed  to  be  told  that  all 
would  be  well.  She  wanted  the  comfort  of  his  sheltering 
arms  and  she  was  afraid,  terribly  afraid.  For  some 
time  he  had  been  himself,  but  each  night  she  held  her 
breath;  she  could  tell  almost  before  he  came  in  how  it 
would  be. 

She  heard  him  open  the  front  door  and  enter  slowly. 
She  ran  to  him,  putting  her  arms  around  him,  holding 
him  close,  trying  to  ward  off  what  she  feared,  praying 
it  might  not  be,  not  to-night. 

"Oh  Gus,"  she  said,  clinging  to  him,  "Gus  dear, 
listen,  listen  to  me.  We  are  going  to  have  another  child, 
and  I  am  so  tired,  oh  so  tired.    Help  me,  help  me!" 

He  pushed  her  from  him.  "It  isn't  true,  it  can't 
be  true.,,  He  looked  at  her  with  a  curious,  hard 
look  and  cunning  came  into  his  eyes.  You're  say- 
ing it  because  you  think — because  you've  got  an  idea 
— you  think  it  will  make  me — " 

"No,  no!"  she  cried.  "It  is  true.  Oh  Gus  darling, 
take  me  in  your  arms, — I  love  you,  I  need  you  so 
terribly!    Oh,  don't  push  me  away,  I  can't  bear  it,  I 

246 


DRIFT 

can't."  But  he  only  stared  at  her.  She  crouched  down 
on  the  lounge  then,  sobbing  wildly,  uncontrollably,  her 
handkerchief  to  her  mouth,  trying  to  stop. 

Gus  stood  over  her.    ''You  ought  not  to  have  let  it 
happen,"  he  said,  "it's  bad  enough  as  it  is  with  Con 
stance  crying  all  the  time.     We  mustn't  have  another 
child,  I  tell  you.    I  can't  work  any  harder  than  I  do 
can  I?    Can't  you  do  anything?" 

Helen  got  on  her  feet.    "You  mean,  you  mean V 

she  gasped — as  if  she  could  not  speak,  "you  mean — kill 
the  child?    Our  child?    Kill  a  little  baby?    Oh,  God!' 

He  took  a  step  towards  her. ' '  Go  away, ' '  she  screamed 
"You  aren't  my  husband.  I  never  want  to  see  you 
again.  You're  mad,  mad!  You  want  to  kill  my  little 
baby."  She  fell  again  upon  the  couch  with  dreadful 
sounds,  and  after  watching  her  for  a  few  moments,  Gus 
went  out  and  down  the  stairs. 

"Where  he  went  she  did  not  know.  Something  seemed 
to  have  broken  in  her  brain.  She  was  afraid  he  would 
come  home  and  hurt  Constance.  He  had  hardly  noticed 
the  child  for  a  long  time,  except  to  complain  when  she 
cried. 

The  next  day  dragged  itself  by.  In  the  evening  Gus 
came  home  broken  and  ashamed.  She  could  hardly 
bring  herself  to  speak  to  him ;  he  seemed  to  her  like  an 
unknown  person  in  Gus's  semblance.  Gradually  his 
dreadful  distress  won  her  tenderness;  they  talked 
for  a  long  time,  he  pleadingly.  She  went  to  sleep  in 
his  arms,  trying  to  make  herself  believe  what  he  said  to 
her.  She  longed  to  believe  him;  he  seemed  confident. 
Perhaps  all  would  be  well.  As  before  she  made  excuses 
If  or  him — the  terrible  "presence"  had  had  possession  of 
him  when  he  spoke. 

For  a  little  time  he  was  his  old  self — gay,  charm- 
ing, ignoring  all  that  had  taken  place.  Helen  grew 
a    little    happier,    but    she    was    very    weak    and 

217 


DEIFT 

the  care  of  Constance  was  oftentimes  more  burden- 
some than  she  would  acknowledge.  The  one  maidser- 
vant was  woefully  inefficient  and  the  young  nurse  but 
slight  help.  She  thought  of  her  mother's  quiet  manage- 
ment of  the  cottage;  everything  was  pleasant  and 
comfortable  there,  why  couldn't  she  do  things  that  way? 
She  tried  to  keep  house  well  and  dress  for  dinner  every 
night  and  plan  that  all  should  be  attractive  for  Gus's 
sake.  The  effort  was  telling  on  her  strength;  her 
cheeks  were  white  and  her  step  dragged.  Martha 
Tucker  was  concerned,  but  thought  that  the  child's 
birth  would  make  her  well. 

The  next  few  months  were  the  bitterest  of  Helen's 
life.  Often  for  several  days  she  did  not  know  where 
Gus  was,  except  that  he  seemed  to  be  regular  at  his  of- 
fice. She  could  not  imagine  how  he  could  do  his 
work,  for  he  was  under  the  influence  of  the  drug  prac- 
tically all  of  the  time.  It  was  not  until  after  that  she 
knew  of  the  leniency  of  his  employers.  Knowing  that 
he  had  a  young  wife  and  child,  they  had  allowed  him  to 
remain  when  every  one  in  the  office  was  aware  of  his 
trouble.  His  mates  tried  to  do  what  they  could  to  help 
him.  It  was  little  enough;  he  became  furiously  angry 
if  any  one  spoke  to  him  on  the  subject,  making  absolute 
denial. 

She  warned  him  that  her  confinement  was  near,  but 
when  it  began  he  was  not  there,  nor  could  she  find  him. 
Nurse  and  doctor  cared  for  her  and  a  boy  was  born, 
sturdy  and  well.  Helen  was  profoundly  thankful.  She 
had  a  superstitious  fear,  born  of  old  wives,  tales,  that 
the  child  would  suffer  by  reason  of  her  distress  before 
its  birth.  They  laid  the  little  warm  bundle  in  her  arms; 
and  some  hours  after  the  father  came,  looked  at  his  son 
and  stumbled  to  his  room. 

In  the  morning  Martha  Tucker  appeared.    Why  had 

248 


DEIPT 

she  not  been  sent  for?       She  could  not  understand. 

"He  came  so  quickly,  Mother  darling,"  Helen  whis- 
pered, touching  the  soft  down  on  the  baby's  head, 
"there  wasn't  any  time  to  do  anything.' '  The  nurse 
gave  a  quick  glance.  She  had  wanted  to  telephone,  but 
Helen  had  told  her  no. 

Well  was  it  for  Martha  Tucker's  tranquillity  of  mind 
that  Josiah  had  a  slight  ill  turn,  keeping  her  at  home 
for  a  few  days,  and  so  unaware  of  Gus's  condition. 
Helen  was  thankful  for  her  mother's  absence,  but 
longed  for  the  comfort  of  her  care. 

The  nurse  and  the  doctor  held  a  consultation  with 
the  result  that  the  doctor  attempted  to  talk  with  Gus, 
to  be  met  with  a  fury  of  anger.  Matters  between  him 
and  his  wife  were  their  own  concern ;  he  would  come  to 
Helen's  room  when  he  chose  and  in  whatever  condition 
he  chose. 

The  doctor  was  routed  for  the  moment  and  took  coun- 
sel with  the  nurse  as  to  whether  anything  further  could 
be  done. 

"Mrs.  Lee  is  keeping  it  from  her  family,"  the  nurse 
told  him,  and  he  nodded.  "She  can't  do  it  much 
longer.  I  never  admired  anybody  so  much,  the  way  she 
takes  it,  I  mean,  but  it's  killing  her  slowly — and  those 
darling  children!"  The  nurse  turned  away;  it  was 
most  unprofessional  to  be  affected  thus. 

That  night  Gus  did  not  come  home  and  Helen  made  no 
inquiry  about  him.  She  felt  very  weak  and  tried  not 
to  think.  She  wanted  to  rest  and  get  well  as  soon  as 
possible  for  the  baby's  sake. 

The  boy's  sturdiness  was  gratifying  after  Con- 
stance's delicacy.  He  roared  for  his  food,  drank  it 
greedily  and  went  to  sleep  all  in  a  normal  fashion.  In 
a  few  days  Gus  pulled  himself  together;  he  was  very 
proud  of  his  lusty  son,  devoting  himself  to  Helen  with 
passionate  tenderness. 

249 


DRIFT 

One  evening  he  was  sitting  by  her.  '  *  Helen  I ' '  he  said 
suddenly,  " Helen!  you  do  believe  in  me,  don't  you?  You 
know  it's  going  to  be  all  right?  I've  learned  my  lesson. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you.  I  'm  so  glad  for  him — the  baby — 
so  glad."  He  bent  his  face  down.  " Forgive  me,  oh, 
forgive  me.    I  was  mad  that  night.' ' 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  referred  to  what  he  had 
said.  Helen  did  not  know  that  he  remembered;  it  was 
terrible  to  her  to  find  that  he  did.  She  longed  to  be- 
lieve in  his  stammered  promises  that  it  would  be  "all 
right, ' '  but  something  was  broken ;  she  could  only  listen 
with  a  profound  pitifulness  in  her  heart.  She  knew 
that  it  was  but  a  matter  of  a  little  time,  some  night  next 
week  perhaps,  or  the  week  after,  when  he  would  come 
home  sullen  and  without  speech;  or  what  was  worse, 
try  to  conceal  his  condition  by  wild  gayety.  If  he  would 
admit  it,  ask  her  to  help  him!  But  he  would  not,  he 
would  keep  up  the  awful  farce  of  pretending  to  be 
natural.  It  was  all  familiar  to  her,  every  phase,  every- 
thing he  would  do ;  how  could  she  have  faith ! 

"Gus,  dear,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  to  him, 
"if  you'd  only  let  me  help  you — if  you'd  only  acknowl- 
edge when — when  you  are  in  trouble."  Never  in  all 
their  talks  did  they  speak  more  definitely,  the  reference 
was  always  veiled,  as  if  the  vagueness  of  phraseology 
helped  to  make  the  fact  less  definite. 

He  loosed  her  hand  and  rose,  turning  away.  "You 
don't  believe  in  me  any  more,"  he  said.  "No  wonder 
that  you  don't,  I  can't  expect  you  to,  but  please  believe 
this — that  I'm  glad  for  him.  Tell  me  that  you  do  be- 
lieve that." 

Yes,  Helen  believed  that,  and  in  her  tenderness  she 
soothed  him.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  herself,  it  was 
torment  to  her  every  time  she  saw  the  child  in  Gus's 
arms.  Never,  never  could  she  forget  what  he  had  bade 
her  do. 

250 


DRIFT 

The  baby  was  named  Josiah,  which  caused  the  elder 
Josiah  the  greatest  satisfaction,  although  when  informed 
of  the  honour  by  Helen,  his  comment  was  grave. 

"It  is  a  serious  thing  to  bequeath  one's  name/'  he 
said.  "One  feels  one  should  be  an  example.  I  fear  I 
am  not  an  example/ ' 

Helen  pulled  him  down  and  kissed  him.  She  was 
holding  young  Josiah  at  the  time.  ' '  Dear,  dear  Father, ' ' 
she  said,  "you  shall  teach  your  namesake  the  beautiful 
things  you  taught  me."  She  stopped  a  moment  and 
added,  "Weren't  those  happy  hours  we  spent  together 
in  the  dear  old  study?  I  look  back  on  them  with  such 
pleasure  and  gratitude  to  you.  I  learned  so  many 
things  that  I  treasure,  that  have  helped  me  since.  I 
think  I  can  never  tell  you  what  you  taught  me;  I  didn't 
know  myself  at  the  time,  but  I  know  now.  It  was  so 
much  more  than  I  realised — you  call  it  philosophy, 
don't  you?  I  mean  the  power  of  seeing  far  ahead  and 
far  back,  of  looking  at  the  world  and  history  and  every- 
thing that  happens  as  a  part  of  something  very  big 
that  we  cannot  understand.  It  makes  little  things,  like 
personal  griefs,  seem  unimportant,  makes  them  bearable. 
One  remembers  that  other  people  have  had  heartaches, 
and  the  world  has  gone  on  just  the  same,  and  so  one 
doesn't  let  one's  own  little  ache  blot  out  the  beauty 
and  splendour  that  there  always  has  been  and  that  must 
continue.  If  one  can  only  hold  on  to  the  vision,  to 
the  belief  that  it  is  there.  I'm  not  saying  it  very  well, 
I'm  afraid,  but  I  think  that  is  what  you  taught  me.  I 
wanted  to  say  this  to  you,  I  was  thinking  about  it  the 
other  night,  thinking  what  your  teaching  had  meant  to 
me." 

Josiah  Tucker's  face  was  illumined.  The  hours  they 
had  spent  pouring  over  the  authors  that  he  revered  and 
loved  had  been  very  happy  ones  to  him.  She  had  proved 
intelligent — an  apt  pupil — quick  to  appreciate  the  aus- 

251 


DRIFT 

tere  beauty  of  the  paths  where  he  had  roamed  so  long. 
To  hear  her  speak  as  she  now  did  of  their  hours  of  study 
together  gave  him  profound  pleasure.  As  she  con- 
cluded he  looked  at  her  keenly.  He  knew  what  she  meant, 
but  he  was  puzzled  and  concerned  that  she  had  discov- 
ered the  need  of  "  philosophy .' '  What  could  be 
troubling  her  when  all  seemed  fair? 

''You  have  put  it  very  well,  Daughter/ '  he  said.  "If 
I  have  been  able  to  teach  you  the  philosophy  you  de- 
scribe, I  am  well  content.  You  have  given  me  happi- 
ness by  speaking  as  you  have.  I  thank  you. ' '  He  bent 
to  kiss  her  and  then,  with  a  wary  forefinger,  attempted 
a  caress  on  the  soft  cheek  of  Josiah  second.  The  baby 
squirmed,  puckered  up  its  countenance,  struck  out  right 
and  left  with  its  wee  fists  and  ended  in  a  mighty 
yawn.  Helen  hugged  him  to  her.  ' '  Some  day  you  shall 
teach  him  philosophy,  too,"  she  said,  "but  not  yet, 
not  yet!" 

On  the  way  home  Josiah  thought  of  repeating 
Helen 's  words  to  his  wife,  but  she  was  planning  happily 
for  a  summer's  visit,  wondering  where  they  could  put 
the  children;  he  would  not  intrude  his  anxiety  upon 
her  pleasure.  Perhaps  he  was  fanciful — Helen  had 
always  seemed  happy;  it  may  have  been  a  mood.  He 
wondered  why  she  had  spoken  so  gravely. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IF  Helen  saw  little  of  Eileen  during  these  years,  it  was 
not  Eileen 's  fault.  She  made  frequent  visits  to 
the  apartment  and  sent  many  invitations,  but  after  a 
little  while  the  visits  were  not  returned  and  the  invita- 
tions were  declined.  Helen  was  always  glad  to  see 
her,  always  cordial,  but  something  had  come  between 
them — the  old  intimacy  had  disappeared.  There  was  too 
much  that  had  to  be  withheld;  their  talk  was  only  of 
passing  things. 

One  day  Eileen  said,  "I  haven't  seen  Gus  for  a  long 
time.  Can't  you  both  come  to  dinner  with  us  some 
night?    All  alone,  I  mean,  so  we  can  have  a  visit ?" 

The  question  came  at  a  time  when  Helen  was  most 
perplexed.  She  had  evaded  Eileen's  plans  for  her 
many  times  before,  but  this  was  direct;  it  had  better 
be  met. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said,  "please  don't  ask  us.  Gus 
is  working  very  hard;  he  is  always  terribly  tired  at 
night." 

Eileen  went  home,  puzzled  and  unhappy.  Helen 
might  at  least  come  to  see  her.  She  was  hurt.  Was 
Helen  so  absorbed  in  the  babies  and  Gus  as  to  let  their 
old  friendship  go !  She  resolved  to  make  another  ef- 
fort, but  before  the  time  came  she  had  found  out  the 
truth  and  was  aghast. 

It  was  Spencer  Crockett  who  told  her.    In  his  con- 

253 


DEIFT 

nection  with  the  Uptown  Club,  he  saw  the  architects 
often.  Mr.  Brewster  had  told  him.  They  were  keeping 
Gus  on,  partly  because  he  had  so  much  to  do  with 
the  plans  of  the  club  that  he  was  indispensable  and  also 
for  his  own  sake.  They  hated  to  give  up  hope  for  him, 
but  he  had  been  so  peculiar  that  it  was  increasingly 
difficult.  Mr.  Brewster  thought  there  was  little  chance 
that  he  would  pull  up. 

Eileen  was  dazed.  She  went  to  see  Helen  the  next 
day,  hoping  the  opportunity  would  come  for  a  word 
of  understanding,  but  Helen  guarded  her  secret  well; 
Eileen  felt  she  could  say  nothing. 

Afterwards,  it  was  strange  and  painful  to  Helen  to 
find  how  many  people  knew  of  the  trouble  she  thought 
she  had  been  hiding.  When  those  who  loved  her  asked 
her  why  she  had  not  told  them,  she  had  no  answer. 

As  spring  came  Martha  Tucker  pled  for  a  whole  sum- 
mer with  ' '  her  babies. ' '  They  must  all  come  to  the  cot- 
tage, she  said,  little  visits  were  not  enough.  Augustus 
could  fit  up  the  barn  for  a  studio  and  plan  beautiful 
houses. 

Martha  Tucker  was  fond  of  Augustus  and  proud  of 
him;  she  hoped  he  would  come,  but  the  babies  she  must 
have,  she  would  not  take  a  denial.  Helen  did  not  know 
how  to  answer.  She  longed  to  be  with  her  mother,  to 
be  comforted  and  cared  for  as  only  her  mother  could 
do,  but  she  felt  that  it  was  impossible.  She  made  demur 
on  her  father's  account,  remembering  the  quiet  pre- 
served for  Mr.  Tucker's  communion  with  the  spirits  of 
the  past ;  but  for  once  in  her  life  Martha  Tucker  ignored 
this  consideration.  "I  want  you  all,"  she  said,  "we'll 
manage ;  it  will  be  good  for  your  father. ' ' 

Helen  thought  constantly  of  her  mother's  plan.  To 
have  the  blessed  peace  of  home,  to  have  her  mother's 
help  with  the  babies,  it  would  be  heaven.  She  won- 
dered how  it  could  be  managed. 

254 


DRIFT 

Gus  himself  solved  the  difficulty.  He  wias  planning 
for  his  vacation  a  Western  camping  trip  with  some  of 
the  men  from  the  office.  Helen  wondered  if  they  knew 
and  what  would  happen,  but  she  was  too  worn  out  to 
have  any  sensation  but  one  of  thankfulness.  She  hoped 
the  trip  would  help  him ;  she  could  do  nothing,  perhaps 
others  could. 

On  the  Sunday  before  he  was  to  leave,  Gus  brought 
his  "harem,"  as  he  called  it,  to  the  Island;  five 
trunks,  one  perambulator,  one  ice  box,  one  nurse,  two 
youngsters,  and  one  wife.  He  checked  them  all  off  care- 
fully, pronouncing  the  list  "correct  and  accounted  for." 
He  was  "himself,"  full  of  his  old  gay  pranks  and  non- 
sense.   Martha  Tucker  adored  him. 

Gus  said  he  had  heard  that  young  infants  could  sup- 
port themselves  by  their  toes  like  monkeys.  There 
could  be  no  better  time  than  the  present  to  try  the  ex- 
periment. Young  Jo  kicked  and  gurgled  and  reached 
out  his  arms  to  be  taken  in  the  human  way  to  which 
he  was  accustomed.  He  was  taken  and  tossed  and 
kissed,  and  held  upside  down  and  called  a  "monkey 
anyway"  to  the  great  delight  of  Constance,  who 
danced  about  calling,  "My  turn,  my  turn!" 

The  day  was  almost  a  happy  one.  If  there  was 
effort  on  Gus's  part,  if  in  his  heart  he  was  profoundly 
hopeless  and  sad,  no  one  but  Helen  knew. 

At  dusk  they  started  to  take  a  walk  across  the 
meadow  by  the  path  that  led  to  the  sea.  Gus  was  to 
leave  in  a  little  while.  As  recollection  swept  over 
them,  both  became  silent.  There  was  no  use  of  prom- 
ises, of  telling  each  other  that  they  knew  all  would 
1 '  come  right ' ' ;  those  things  had  been  said  between  them 
too  many  times.  Down  by  the  shore  Gus  turned  to  her 
and  held  out  his  arms.  As  he  held  her  gravely,  pas- 
sionately, it  came  over  them  that  they  had  known  great 
happiness — the  pain  could  not  blot  it  out.     Something 

255 


DRIFT 

of  this  Gus  tried  to  say  on  the  way  home.    Helen  held 
tight  to  his  arm.    ' '  My  husband,  my  husband. ' '  she  said. 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  the  classicist  not  only  made  no 
objections  to  his  altered  household,  but  showed  signs 
of  new  life.  He  would  come  forth  early  in  the  after- 
noon and  sit  in  the  garden  observing  his  grandchildren, 
much  as  a  scientist  studies  new  and  unknown  speci- 
mens. He  seldom  ventured  to  address  them,  and  when 
he  did  it  was  with  a  gravity  and  courtesy  that  impressed 
little  Constance  deeply.  "Father's  teaching  her  man- 
ners/ '  said  Helen. 

Martha  Tucker  was  happy.  She  asked  nothing  fur- 
ther of  life.  Josiah  seemed  to  have  discovered  that 
there  were  human  beings  on  the  earth  and  was  pleased 
with  the  discovery.  They  interested  him — he  turned  to 
her  for  sympathy  in  his  enjoyment. 

Two  golden  months  went  by,  and  in  the  early  autumn 
Martha  Tucker  died  quietly  in  her  bed  at  night.  Helen 
was  bewildered;  it  was  as  if  she  could  not  understand. 
Her  young  spirit  rebelled  with  a  great  rebellion  against 
the  awful  irrevocableness  of  death. 

It  seemed  that  Josiah  Tucker  could  not  grasp  any  more 
than  Helen  what  had  come  to  be,  what  they  were  with- 
out. On  the  night  after  the  burial  Helen  heard  him 
stirring.  Suddenly  a  great  cry  broke  across  the  still- 
ness of  the  night.  "Martha!  Martha!  My  wife! 
Martha  !" 

She  went  to  him,  sobbing,  trying  to  give  him  comfort 
with  her  tender  words.  "Martha!  My  wife!  Martha  1" 
Again  his  voice  was  raised  as  one  demanding,  and  yet 
a  third  time  the  cry  rang  out  loud,  insistent,  ringing. 
It  was  as  if  he  would  make  high  heaven  hear — "Martha ! 
Martha!    My  wife!' ' 

Hjelen,  terrified,  left  him  to  summon  help.  She 
thought  his  mind  affected,  but  when  she  returned  he 

256 


DRIFT 

spoke  naturally.  "I  thought  there  might  be  some  an- 
swer. Many  people  believe  the  spirits  of  the  dead  are 
near  for  a  time.    I  wonder  if  that  is  so?" 

He  grew  calm  at  last  and  never  again  after  that  night 
raised  his  cry. 

The  days  at  the  cottage  went  slowly  by.  Outwardly, 
life  resumed  its  wonted  course.  The  summer  gave  way 
to  early  autumn,  the  maples  were  turning  yellow. 
Josiah  Tucker  grieved  silently.  He  could  not  read. 
Helen  would  find  him  wandering  about  the  house  at 
strange  hours,  or  sitting  in  her  mother's  chair  by  the 
fire.  He  tried  to  take  up  work  on  his  book  of  long  ago 
and  brought  out  a  great  pile  of  manuscript,  but  after 
a  few  days  it  was  laid  away. 

One  morning,  putting  a  handkerchief  over  his  head 
and  taking  a  basket,  he  went  out  into  "the  garden," 
the  little  patch  of  colour  and  sweetness  Martha  Tucker 
had  cared  for.  He  explained  he  thought  the  flowers 
must  be  missing  her ;  he  would  try  to  do  for  them  what 
they  needed.  He  weeded  and  clipped  all  the  morning 
and  came  in  flushed  from  the  September  sun.  "In  the 
garden  of  the  Hesperides, ' '  he  said,  "I  think  tending 
could  not  have  been  required;  it  seems  fatiguing." 

As  winter  approached  Helen  wondered  what  she  could 
do.  It  seemed  impossible  to  go  back  to  the  tiny  apart- 
ment. Her  father  needed  her.  He  would  come  and  ask 
what  he  could  do  that  would  be  of  assistance  to  her, 
making  the  offer  when  she  was  busiest;  then  he  would 
wait  about,  hoping  she  would  soon  be  free  to  talk  to 
him.  She  could  not  leave  him  alone  for  the  winter  at 
the  cottage ;  Constance  needed  ceaseless  care,  and  Gus — 
what  could  she  do  about  Gus?  She  had  not  seen  him 
for  over  two  months  and  he  had  written  only  twice; 
she  did  not  know  what  he  wanted  her  to  do.  He  was 
so  sensitive  to  the  children's  crying,  how  could  she 

257 


DEIPT 

manage?     She  tried  to  plan,  but  the  way  seemed  too 
difficult. 

Little  Jo  was  her  one  comfort.  He  never  exacted 
anything  at  all,  only  laughed  with  delight  when  she 
picked  him  up  for  a  quick  hug  and  looked  a  little 
solemn  when  he  was  dumped  down  again.  He  would 
have  liked  more  playtime  with  his  beautiful  mother, 
but  since  the  world  seemed  arranged  that  way,  he  con- 
sidered that  adverse  comment  from  him  was  not  likely 
to  alter  it.  He  was  not  Josiah  Tucker's  namesake  for 
nothing. 

Helen  was  glad  that  she  had  been  insistent  about  the 
name  Josiah.  She  would  not  acknowledge  that  she  had 
been  afraid  Gus's  name  would  be  suggested.  With  a 
strange  feeling  she  watched  the  child  grow  more  and 
more  like  his  father — the  father  who  had  said  he  must 
not  come.  As  the  boy  splashed  in  his  tub,  the  shape 
of  his  sturdy  little  frame,  the  peak  of  hair  at  the  back 
of  his  neck,  the  way  he  laughed  out,  suddenly,  gleefully, 
all  bespoke  his  father.  Oh,  what  would  come,  she 
thought,  what  would  come? 

She  remembered  the  night  he  was  conceived — -if  only 
she  could  be  sure  about  Gus!  He  had  been  angry  that 
evening — some  trifle  had  gone  wrong,  and  he  had  sud- 
denly blazed  up  in  one  of  his  strange  fits  of  fury.  Find- 
ing that  everything  she  tried  to  say  only  seemed  to 
make  matters  worse,  she  left  him  and  went  to  bed, 
after  a  while  to  sleep.  Towards  dawn  she  awakened  to 
find  Gus  reading.  He  had  not  slept,  he  said,  he  could 
not.  He  had  been  thinking  that  he  ought  to  go  away. 
He  was  not  fit  to  be  with  her. 

His  bitter  self-reproach  brought  out  all  her  yearning 
tenderness.  How  could  she  have  slept  while  he  was 
suffering  and  she  loved  him  so  ?  They  had  come  together 
in  a  passionate  embrace,  for  the  moment  utterly  hap- 
py, utterly  lost  to  everything  save  each  other:  after- 
wards, she  had  remembered. 

258 


DRIFT 

After  trying  to  think  what  to  do,  Helen  wrote  to  Gus. 
She  asked  him  to  promise  to  put  himself  under  the 
care  of  a  physician,  only  if  he  were  willing  to  do  that 
could  she  come  back  to  the  apartment.  Another  winter 
like  the  last  one  she  could  not  face.  She  wrote  earnestly, 
her  whole  soul  in  this  last  effort  to  try  to  save  him.  She 
wondered  how  he  would  take  her  proposition ;  never 
before  had  she  let  him  see  that  the  strain  was  too  great 
for  her  to  bear.  She  posted  her  letter  herself  and  cal- 
culated the  days  until  an  answer  could  come.  She 
waited  and  waited,  but  no  answer  reached  her.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  think,  what  to  do. 

After  consultation  with  Anna  Lee,  it  was  ar- 
ranged that,  for  a  few  months  at  least,  Helen  should 
remain  with  her  father.  Anna  would  keep  house  for 
her  brother  at  the  apartment ;  Gus  might  come  to  Staten 
Island  for  Sundays  when  he  could. 

It  was  Anna's  proposal,  and  Helen  was  profoundly 
thankful  to  accept  the  offer.  She  knew  now  that  she 
had  no  influence  with  Gus.  Sometimes  she  thought  her 
presence  was  only  an  aggravation,  reminding  him  of 
obligations  he  could  not  fulfil ;  perhaps  Anna  could  help 
him. 

Helen  wondered  that  Mrs.  Lee  had  consented  to 
Anna's  plan  but  she  accepted  the  offer  with  unspeak- 
able relief.  Anna  would  be  good  to  Gus,  the  children 
must  be  cared  for  as  well  as  her  father,  and  nowadays 
she  had  so  little  strength! 

When  Gus  came,  he  accepted  the  arrangement  with- 
out protest.  The  veil  of  pretence  had  been  thrown  aside. 
He  acknowledged  that  the  drug  had  him  in  its  grip. 
At  times  he  was  humbly  desirous  to  try  and  find  some 
means  of  cure,  at  others  defiant  in  his  belief  that  he 
could  cure  himself.  He  resented  bitterly  the  fact  that 
others  had  lost  faith  in  him.  The  only  reply  to  her 
letter  Helen  had  received  was  a  bitter  word,  ' '  I  tell  you 

259 


DRIFT 

it  is  under  my  control;  I  could  manage  myself  if 
you  would  only  stop  trying  to  interfere." 

The  winter  had  its  tranquil  hours.  The  quiet  of  the 
country  was  comforting.  Anastasia,  the  faithful,  moth- 
ered her  and  Josiah  and  the  children  with  entire  impar- 
tiality and  devotion.  Her  father  read  to  her  in  the 
evenings;  again  they  lost  themselves  as  they  wandered 
in  classic  groves. 

On  Christmas  day  Gus  came  to  see  them,  with  pres- 
ents for  the  children,  but  they  were  shy  and  would  not 
come  to  him.  Mr.  Tucker  absented  himself,  fearing 
he  would  not  be  able,  to  play  the  comedy  of  courtesy. 
When  Gus  had  been  there  only  a  little  while,  he  rose, 
saying  he  thought  he  had  better  go  back  to  New  York. 
Helen  could  not  speak.  He  kissed  her  and  went  away. 
She  watched  him  walk  down  the  hill — he  walked  slowly, 
like  an  old  man;  his  head  was  bent.  Before  the  turn 
in  the  road  he  looked  back  and  then  went  on. 

Suddenly  intense  realisation  came  over  her:  that 
man  going  slowly  away  was  her  husband,  the 
man  to  whom  she  had  given  the  passion  of  her  youth, 
her  love.  Something  in  her  stirred  that  she  thought 
was  dead;  she  could  not  let  him  go  like  that,  she  could 
not.  Throwing  a  cloak  around  her,  she  ran  down  the 
hill,  calling,  i l  Gus,  Gus,  come  back,  don 't  go  like  that ! ' ' 
He  turned  and  took  her  hands.  ''I  love  you,"  he  said, 
"don't  forget  that."  In  spite  of  his  protests  she  walked 
with  him  to  the  station,  trying  to  tell  him  what  was  in 
her  heart.     She  would  come  back,  if  only 

He  stopped  her.  "I  am  glad  you  said  that,"  he 
said,  "but  you  see  I  must  protect  you  from  myself.  Go 
now,  go  back." 


|MM(NriMMMMMMIIII 


-  -  MNM(p 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


IN  the  spring  Gus  disappeared  and  when  found,  after 
ten  days'  search,  was  pronounced  insane.  He  was 
not  violent,  but  the  doctors  advised  a  sanatorium  and 
restraint  for  a  time.  He  would  not  consent,  and  ap- 
peared so  natural  that  proof  was  required  before  a  com- 
mitment could  be  obtained.  Helen  was  summoned  to 
appear.  As  she  was  starting  to  go  to  New  York,  she 
received  a  letter  from  Gus's  mother.  Mrs.  Lee  consid- 
ered that  Helen  should  have  been  able  to  persuade  Gus 
to  give  up  the  drug  in  the  first  days  of  their  marriage 
and  reproached  her  for  remaining  away  from  him  dur- 
ing the  winter.  That  was  the  reason  undoubtedly,  she 
said,  for  the  final  breakdown.  Now  she  wished  Helen 
to  give  favourable  testimony,  as  she  would,  of  course,  be 
the  principal  witness.  Helen  reread  the  letter  on  the 
way  to  town.    What  could  she  do? 

The  Judge  questioned  her  kindly,  Gus's  father  now 
and  then  putting  in  words  of  encouragement.  Josiah 
Tucker  stood  beside  her.  Gus,  her  husband — the  lover 
who  had  given  her  all  the  joy  her  life  had  known — sat 
opposite,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  as  she  told  of  his  unac- 
countable fits  of  anger,  of  strange  things  he  had  said, 
of  threats  that  he  had  made.  Of  the  night  when  she 
cried  out  that  he  was  mad  she  did  not  speak.  Several 
times  she  interrupted  herself  to  add,  "But  that  was 
only  when  he  was  not  himself !    Most  of  the  time  he  was 

261 


DEIFT 

so  good  to  me,  so  tender !  We  were  happy ;  it  was  only 
sometimes — please  understand  that,  please  understand ! ' ' 

The  Judge  broke  in,  "Yes,  Mrs.  Lee,  we  do  under- 
stand, of  course,  we  do;  do  not  fear." 

Finally  it  was  over.  Josiah  drew  her  hand  within 
his  arm  to  lead  her  away,  but  she  stepped  near  to  Gus, 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face,  and  held  out  her  hand,  not 
knowing  what  he  would  do. 

He  took  her  hand,  held  it  a  moment,  and  raised  it  to 
his  lips,  his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  her  face.  She  cried 
out  then  that  she  would  go  with  him;  he  was  her  hus- 
band, he  needed  her;  they  must  let  her  go.  Oh,  why 
had  she  left  him! 

Gus  put  her  gently  from  him  and  shook  his  head. 
Her  father  took  her  hand.  "Daughter,  Daughter,"  he 
said,  "remember  they  are  waiting  for  you,  Constance 
and  little  Jo.    They  need  you." 

Father  and  daughter  journeyed  back  to  the  cottage 
in  the  late  afternoon,  taking  the  end  seat  in  a  crowded 
train  to  be  unobserved.  The  air  was  sweet  with  the 
promise  of  spring.  When  they  reached  the  cottage  the 
children  were  asleep.  She  was  glad  of  that;  she  was 
afraid  that  they  would  know. 

Helen  crept  to  her  room  and  sank  down  beside  her 
bed.  "Oh,  God,  let  me  die  tonight,"  she  said,  "there 
can  be  nothing  more  after  this." 

But  there  was  something  more.  Little  Jo  laughed 
through  three  more  months  of  his  baby  life  and  died. 
One  day  he  was  playing  with  clover  blossoms  on  the 
grass  and  the  next  lying  still,  his  round  little  face  al- 
most smiling,  one  fist  under  his  chin  as  he  always 
slept. 

Helen  was  quiet.  She  made  no  moan  or  outcry,  but 
she  would  let  no  one  touch  him  but  herself.  To  Josiah, 
she  said,  over  and  over,  "He  was  such  a  happy  baby, 

262 


DRIFT 

always  happy.  Don't  you  know  how  happy  he  always 
was?"  She  wished  that  she  had  played  with  him  more, 
he  loved  so  to  be  played  with.  The  short  life  had  been 
perfect  just  as  it  was.  Now  it  was  over,  it  was  not  right 
to  weep  for  him;  he  was  safe,  he  could  not — nothing 
could  hurt  him  now.    Over  and  over  she  told  herself  this. 

It  was  Anna  Lee  who  journeyed  to  the  sanatorium  to 
tell  Gus  of  the  child's  death.  Shortly  after  his  com- 
mitment Gus  had  written  to  Helen  not  to  come  and  see 
him,  " until  I  am  better/ '  he  said.  "I  would  rather  that 
you  remembered  the  beauty  and  glory  we  have  had. 
I  don't  want  you  to  see  me  here." 

Anna  felt  that  Gus  must  be  told  at  once  of  the  child's 
death.  "You  know,  much  of  the  time  he  is  quite  ra- 
tional; he  would  want  to  know,"  she  said,  and  Helen 
had  assented. 

The  two  had  come  of  late  to  have  an  affection  for 
each  other.  Only  recently  had  Anna  discovered  that 
her  childish  warning  letter  had  been  received.  She 
was  comforted  by  Helen's  assurance  that  she  under- 
stood the  sturdy  honesty  which  had  prompted  her  to 
send  it.  Now,  as  then,  Anna  felt  that  what  had  come  to 
be,  sad  as  it  was,  should  be  told  to  the  person  whom  it 
closely  concerned.    She  set  forth  on  her  errand. 

As  the  cab  she  had  taken  from  the  station  turned 
in  at  the  gate  of  the  sanatorium  grounds,  she  thought, 
as  she  had  thought  before,  "What  a  pretty  place!" 
The  buildings  stood  on  a  hillside,  and  there  were  shrubs 
and  flowers  and  vines.  It  was  only  when  she  was  close 
to  the  door  that  she  saw  the  iron  bars. 

Gus  was  sitting  in  his  room  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. He  rose  to  greet  her  with  an  expression  of  pleas- 
ure, his  arms  held  out.  Anna  went  to  him.  "The 
baby  is  dead,"  she  said.     "I  came  to  tell  you." 

There  was  no  change  of  expression  on  Gus's  face.  He 

263 


DRIFT 

stood  and  looked  at  her.    She  was  a  little  frightened. 

" Don't  you  understand?"  she  said;  "I  mean  little 
Jo,  your  son,  is  dead.  I  brought  you  this."  She  held 
out  a  picture  to  him,  a  kodak  of  Jo,  toddling  across 
the  grass,  a  flower  in  one  fist. 

Gus  took  it  and  looked  at  it.  "My  son — my  son  is 
dead,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.    ''Yes,  I  understand." 

Again  he  looked  at  her,  "My  son,  it  was,  that  could 
not  live?    Was  that  what  you  said?" 

Anna  nodded.  She  did  not  know  it  would  be  like 
this.  Perhaps  she  ought  not  to  have  told  him,  perhaps 
it  Would  do  him  harm!  If  he  would  only  cry  out,  but 
he  stood  before  her  silent. 

After  a  moment  he  looked  up.  "And  Constance?" 
he  said. 

"Constance  is  all  right.  She's  been  strong  and 
well  this  summer."  He  made  a  little  sign  of  assent 
and  sat  down  to  look  out  of  the  window  again. 

"Don't  you  want  to  have  me  tell  you  about  it — about 
Constance?"  Anna  faltered,  but  he  seemed  not  to  hear, 
and  after  waiting  for  a  time  she  left  him,  looking  out 
of  the  window,  the  kodak  picture  in  his  hand. 

As  cold  weather  came  on,  Constance  drooped,  and 
the  doctor  was  anxious  for  a  winter  out  of  doors.  He 
suggested  Florida,  but  Helen  thought  California  would 
be  better.  There  were  Tucker  cousins  there  whom  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  see  again.  The  doctor  assented — 
yes,  California  was  excellent;  the  child  would  undoubt- 
edly gain  rapidly. 

Josiah  Tucker  had  no  thought  at  first  of  leaving  his 
habitat,  but  Constance's  lip  trembled  during  the  discus- 
sion. She  turned  pleading  eyes  to  her  mother.  "Oh, 
but  I  want  Granddaddy  to  go,  too,"  she  said.  "Who'll 
there  be  to  play  with?"  Helen  gathered  the  child  in 
her  arms. 

264 


DRIFT 

"So  do  I  want  him,"  she  said.  "Run  now  and  whis- 
per in  his  ear  that  you  want  him  to  come  with  us." 
Constance  flew  across  the  room. 

"I  want  you,  Granddad,"  she  said,  "and  you  must 
come." 

Josiah  blinked  a  little,  cast  an  eye  around  the  library 
and  capitulated — whispering  to  the  child.  Constance 
ran  back  to  her  mother.    ' '  He  will,  he  will ! ' '  she  cried. 

Next,  Anastasia  lifted  up  her  voice  in  a  great  protest. 
She  to  be  left  all  alone  ?  Certainly  not,  she  would  die  of 
lonesomeness.  What  would  "the  children"  do  without 
her?  Nobody  else  could  cook  things  the  way  they  liked. 
The  "  children "  were  Josiah  and  Constance.  Anastasia 
treated  them  alike.    Helen  smiled. 

"I  don't  know  how  we  are  to  do  without  you,"  she 
said,  "but  it's  out  of  the  question,  I  can't  possibly  af- 
ford it." 

"Is  that  all?"  Anastasia 's  large  face  broadened  with 
pleasure.  "Isn't  it  years  and  years  I've  been  waiting 
not  to  heave  coal  in  stoves  for  six  months  straight  and 
then  shiver?  They  say  there's  flowers  all  winter  in 
California,  and  geraniums  twenty  feet  high.  My  sister 
was  there  once  with  the  lady  she  works  for.  Wouldn't 
my  wages  pay  the  fare?  I  don't  need  any  wages,  Miss 
Helen,  dear.  Indeed  I  don't.  Don't  leave  me  here  to 
die  of  lonesomeness  without  you.  Your  father,— why 
he's  that  particular, — I  have  to  stay  to  take  care  of 
him!" 

Helen  wavered.  She  knew  the  offer  was  genuine, 
but  ought  she  to  accept  it?  What  a  comfort  Anastasia 
would  be!  They  could  have  a  little  cottage  perhaps, 
with  geraniums  "twenty  feet  high."  "The  children" 
would  be  cared  for  and  perhaps  she  herself  would  be 
able  to  get  back  a  little  strength. 

She  put  her  arms  around  Anastasia 's  neck.     "Oh, 

265 


DRIFT 

how  glad  I  am  I've  got  you,"  she  said,  and  Anastasia 
blubbered  with  joy. 

A  dreadful  thought  haunted  Josiah 's  mind.  After  a 
few  days  he  spoke  of  it.  "What  if  the  house  should 
burn  down?"  This  was  a  poser.  Helen  considered. 
Fire  insurance  would  be  of  no  avail;  the  books  were 
irreplaceable,  the  marginal  notes  were  the  work  of  a 
lifetime.  The  simple  Anastasia  was  visited  with  an- 
other idea.  "There's  lots  of  reading  in  this  house," 
she  said,  "wouldn't  there  be  some  one  fond  of  learning 
like  yourself,  sir,  would  like  to  take  care  of  the  house 
for  the  sake  of  the  books  ?  I'd  teach  'em  to  blow  'em  off 
so  they  wouldn't  be  usin'  no  rags  to  dust  'em  with." 

Helen  clapped  her  hands.  "Anastasia,  you're  a  won- 
der!" she  said,  "I  know  the  very  people — the  Halberts, 
the  high  school  superintendent,  you  know.  They're 
just  married,  they're  boarding  now — why,  they'd  love 
it.    What  a  wonderful  idea ! ' ' 

Josiah  looked  alarmed.  There  were  other  dangers 
than  fire.  "Would  they — do  you  think?"  he  began, 
but  Helen  was  at  the  telephone. 

"Mrs.  Halbert  is  delighted,"  she  reported.  "They'll 
be  over  this  evening." 

Josiah  spent  the  afternoon  fingering  and  patting  his 
treasures,  taking  a  volume  down  to  glance  it  over,  put- 
ting it  back  with  a  sigh.  What  would  happen?  A 
winter  in  a  strange  place  without  these  companions — 
it  was  hard  to  think  about. 

He  was  made  happy  in  the  evening  by  Mr.  Halbert 's 
reverent  handling  and  intelligent  questions.  It  was  a 
very  great  privilege,  he  said.  He  would  take  care  that 
Mr.  Tucker  should  not  regret  this  kindness.  He  in- 
sisted upon  paying  a  modest  rental  and  all  was  shortly 
arranged.  Anastasia  beamed  with  satisfaction  and  im- 
portance. She  felt  that  she  was  really  looking  after  "the 
children."     Miss  Helen's  cheeks  must  get  red  again 

266 


DRIFT 

and  her  eyes  bright  out  there  where  the  geraniums  grew 
twenty  feet  high. 

On  the  day  before  they  were  to  leave,  Anastasia 
climbed  upstairs  to  find  Helen.  She  bore  a  card  which 
she  held  gingerly,  using  the  corner  of  her  apron  as  a 
shield  for  its  impressive  whiteness.  She  said  that  there 
was  a  nice,  kind-looking  gentleman  downstairs  to  see 
her.  She  hoped  Miss  Helen  would  go  down,  it  would  do 
her  good.  He  was  a  nice  gentleman.  He  said  for  her 
not  to  come  down  unless  she  wanted  to,  to  be  sure  to 
say  that,  but  it  wouldn't  take  a  minute  for  Miss  Helen 
to  fix  her  hair ;  she  would  go  down  and  tell  him. 

Helen  read  the  card  with  surprise:  "Mr.  Spencer 
Crockett. ' '    She  had  not  seen  Crockett  for  years. 

"I  heard  from  Mrs.  Templeton  that  you  were  in 
trouble/ '  he  said.  "I  came  because  I  couldn't  help 
coming.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  much  I  longed  to 
help  if  I  could." 

Helen  was  touched.  She  had  never  credited  the  sar- 
donic picture-lover  with  so  much  feeling.  For  him  to 
journey  to  the  Island  to  tell  her  this  upset  all  her  previ- 
ous ideas  of  him. 

Something  of  this  thought  she  put  in  her  reply.  Spen- 
cer Crockett  smiled  and  winked.  It  was  not  mocking 
as  of  old ;  it  was  tragic,  as  if  some  impish  devil  danced 
about  and  would  not  even  let  him  talk  to  the  woman  he 
loved. 

"No,  there  is  nothing  you  can  do,"  Helen  told  him, 
"nothing  anyone  can  do,  but  I  can't  tell  you  how 
touched  I  am  by  your  coming.  No  one  could  have  better 
friends  than  I.  That  is  the  wonderful  thing  about  sor- 
row ;  it  shows  you — what  people  are — what  they  long  to 
do-^tfor  you.  Every  one  wants  to  help  me,  but  they 
can't,  they  can't!"  She  stopped,  trying  to  keep  back 
the  tears. 

Helen  rarely  cried ;  but  a  remembrance  swept  over  her 

267 


DEIPT 

of  the  afternoon  Crockett  had  kissed  her  because  she 
was  in  love,  and  she  broke  down.  ' '  Oh,  Mr.  Crockett, ' ' 
she  sobbed,  "Mr.  Crockett,  forgive  me!  I  don't  often 
give  way,  but  I  remembered " 

He  bowed  his  head.  "Yes,  I  remember,  too,"  he  said, 
"I  like  to  remember.  You  have  had  great  joy,  you 
are  glad  you  had — that  time,  aren't  you?  Some  people 
go  through  their  lives  and  never  know  what  it  means  to 
love  like  that.  Try  and  think  of  the  happy  times.  It 
is  all  one  can  do,  isn't  it,  when  one  is  suffering ?" 

Helen  put  out  a  little,  groping  hand.  He  took  it  and 
held  it,  and  the  passionate  sympathy  that  possessed 
tevery  part  of  him  seemed  to  flow  to  her  through  his 
quiet  touch.  Helen  looked  up,  trying  to  smile.  "Oh, 
how  good  everybody  is  to  me!"  she  said.    "Everybody, 

but "    She  broke  down  for  a  minute No,  no, 

she  would  not  say  that,  would  not  think  it,  Mr.  Crockett 
would  understand — it  only  seemed  sometimes  almost 
cruel,  almost  a  mockery,  to  have  every  one  else —  She 
stopped  again.  Crockett  talked  to  her  and  soothed  her, 
the  depth  of  his  own  feeling  teaching  him  what  words 
to  use.  He  learned  what  a  "wonderful  friend"  Eileen 
had  been,  and  found  himself  winking  rapidly.  He  could 
not  understand  Eileen. 


PAET  IV 


CHAPTER  XXX 

ON  a  January  morning,  Lynn  Medway,  called  in  the 
newspaper  art  criticisms  "one  of  our  rising  young 
painters, ' '  sat  at  breakfast  in  the  blue-and-white  dining- 
room  of  his  studio  apartment,  reading  his  letters.  Op- 
posite, was  his  wife  Jane,  pleasant  to  look  upon. 
From  her  well-coiffed  head  to  her  buttoned  boots,  she 
was  trim — ready  for  a  busy  day.  On  his  left  sat  his 
little  daughter  Laura,  and  on  his  right,  his  two  sons 
the  twins,  Billy  and  Baxter.  No  twins  were  ever  more 
unlike.  Jane  Medway  lamented  that  Billy  had  no  soul, 
whereas  Baxter  had  too  much. 

At  the  moment  both  boys  were  occupied  with  oatmeal 
and  cream,  while  Laura,  a  fairy-like  little  creature  of 
six,  sat  watching  her  father.  She  had  opened  the  ends 
of  his  letters  neatly  with  a  small  silver  knife  laid  by  her 
plate  for  the  purpose  and  was  now  waiting  to  see  if  any 
of  the  contents  were  likely  to  prove  interesting.  When- 
ever there  was  something  exciting  her  father  would 
whisper  it  in  her  ear,  while  she  listened  with  an  expres- 
sion of  importance.  She  would  then  clamber  down  to 
run  on  a  tiny  embassy  to  her  mother,  communicating 
the  secret  with  equal  seriousness.  It  was  then  at  Jane's 
discretion  to  make  public  announcement.  Billy  was 
apt  to  remark,  "Oh,  pshaw!  is  that  all?" 

There  was  one  unoccupied  place  at  the  table,  which 
was  presently  filled  by  Carol  Medway,  the  painter's  sis- 


DRIFT 

ter,  to  whom  Laura  stretched  forth  a  small  hand  in 
greeting. 

"You're  late,"  she  said,  "but  it's  all  right.  Father 
hasn't  told  me  anything  yet."  The  young  girl  stooped 
to  the  low- voiced  communication  meant  to  convey  proper 
awe  of  any  news  to  come  and  left  a  light  kiss  on  the 
child's  fair  head. 

"I  know  I'm  late,"  she  said.  "I  washed  two  dozen 
brushes  after  I  got  home  from  the  dance  last  night,  and 
then  dreamed  I  was  ready  to  go  to  work  and  they  were 
all  dirty.    I  call  that  hard." 

Lynn  Med  way  looked  up  with  a  laugh.  "You're  the 
most  painstaking  art  student  I  ever  saw,  Sis,"  he  said. 
"You'll  win  out.  Chuck  your  brushes  in  with  mine. 
Jim '11  wash  them." 

"I  think  I  like  doing  it  myself,"  Carol  replied,  "al- 
though not  at  three  a.m."  She  took  her  coffee  from 
Jane.  "I  love  all  of  it,  everything  in  the  studio,  even 
washing  the  brushes." 

Carol  Medway  had  come  recently  from  her  home  in 
Ohio  to  be  her  brother's  pupil  and  was  excited  by  the 
adventure.  She  was  a  keen  and  ardent  admirer  of  his 
work — a  tribute  that  did  not  come  amiss,  for  as  yet  he 
was  understood  by  few. 

It  was  before  the  days  of  post-impressionism,  but 
Lynn  Medway  and  a  few  others  were  in  a  kind  of 
friendly  rebellion  against  the  methods  of  their  immedi- 
ate predecessors.  They  intentionally  aimed  at  more 
decorative  effects  and  were  lavish  in  the  use  of  brilliant 
colour.  They  held  exclusive  exhibitions  by  themselves 
and  were  the  objects  of  both  laughter  and  tears. 

At  the  request  of  Spencer  Crockett,  Medway  had  re- 
cently submitted  for  the  consideration  of  the  archi- 
tects and  the  building  committee,  a  series  of  designs  in- 
tended for  the  decoration  of  the  principal  room  in  a  new 
and  luxurious  clubhouse  then  building. 

272 


DRIFT 

The  Uptown  Club,  as  it  was  called,  bid  fair  to  rival 
all  of  its  predecessors  in  beauty  and  perfection  of  equip- 
ment. The  physical  welfare  of  the  members,  from  the 
marble  baths  to  the  electrically  wound  clocks  by  each 
bedside,  was  all  arranged  for;  their  mental  needs  were 
to  be  supplied  by  a  well-selected  modern  library  in  rich 
and  harmonious  bindings;  now  Spencer  Crockett  con- 
sidered that  their  souls  should  be  fed  by  the  contempla- 
tion of  a  rare  and  disturbing  beauty. 

Crockett  had  been  having  one  of  his  joyous,  mad  spells 
over  Medway 's  work.  He  called  him  the  "painter  of 
dreams.' '  A  month  before,  he  had  pounced  on  a  small 
picture  at  a  dealer 's ;  flown  to  the  painter  's  studio,  there 
to  wonder  delightedly ;  bought  more  than  he  could  afford 
and  was  now  at  the  stage  where  he  was  alarmed  lest 
Medway  should  catch  a  cold  and  die  before  he  had  set 
down  in  colour  that  which  was  within  him. 

He  talked,  dreamed,  and  moved  in  a  world  peopled  by 
Medway 's  attenuated  figures  with  their  subtle  colour- 
ings, their  wistful  faces,  their  poetic,  tragic  gestures. 

Ardently  Crockett  desired  that  Medway  should  be  giv- 
en the  commission  and  the  club  have  a  "lounge"  unique 
in  beauty. 

The  designs  were  daring :  the  theme,  love  scenes  from 
the  Bible.  Medway  had  a  theory  that  the  mythology  of 
a  people  was  the  fountain  head  of  its  art,  and  he  had 
tried  to  express  in  these  pictures  all  of  the  sumptuous 
beauty  and  legendary  significance  that  the  stories  them- 
selves had  for  him.  The  architects  as  well  as  the  club 
authorities  were  puzzled.  Love  scenes  and  Biblical 
scenes  seemed  equally  unsuitable  for  the  adornment  of 
the  "lounge"  of  a  club.  If  it  had  to  be  the  Bible, 
why  in  thunder  couldn't  the  fellow  have  chosen  Jacob 
and  his  coat  or  something  like  that  ? 

The  committee  sat  gravely  about  a  table  and  consid- 
ered.   Crockett  had  gotten  himself  made  a  member  of 

273 


DRIFT 

the  building  committee  to  further  the  ends  he  sought. 
Inwardly  he  was  raging;  out\Yardly  he  wore  only  a 
slightly  pitying  air,  as  who  should  say,  "Poor  moles! 
Poor  moles !" 

The  committee  regarded  the  design  for  Ruth  sleep- 
ing at  the  feet  of  Boaz.  There  was  lavish  use  of  gold, 
the  figures  were  indistinct,  all  was  dim — &  night  scene. 
Ruth  lay — a  lovely,  brown,  almost  nude  figure — young, 
unconscious,  chaste.  All  that  could  be  seen  of  Boaz  was 
a  brown  face  peering  from  an  oriental  mass  of  colour. 
In  an  undefinable  way,  the  whole  picture  breathed  a 
delicate  voluptuousness.  * '  Confound  it ! ' '  said  the  chair- 
man of  the  committee,  "the  thing  is  more  sensuous  than 
if  it  were  painted  in  the  old  way  and  yet  for  the  life  of 
me  I  can  't  see  why. ' '  "  Always  thought  Boaz  was  a  noble 
old  party,"  said  another,  picking  up  the  sketch,  "turned 
her  over  honourably,  didn't  he,  to  the  next  of  kin? 
Comes  along  a  painter  chap  five  thousand  years  after 
and  blasts  his  reputation — damned  unjust  I  call  it- 
might  as  well — "  he  stopped. 

While  the  club  authorities  "  considered/ *  Medway 
stormed  and  refused  to  alter  his  designs  by  "one  jot 
or  tittle.' ' 

The  mlatter  had  hung  fire  for  some  time,  so  it  was 
with  a  smile  that  Medway  beckoned  Laura  to  him  after 
reading  a  brief  letter  from  the  architects — Brewster  & 
Knoll. 

The  child  gave  an  excited  "oh,"  after  he  had  whis- 
pered the  secret,  burrowed  her  head  against  his  breast 
for  a  moment  and  with  a  little  laugh  of  delight  ran 
quickly  to  her  mother  to  impart  the  news.  Jane  Medway 
took  the  little  girl  on  her  lap;  her  eyes  were  shining. 
"Oh,  Lynn,  I'm  so  glad!"  she  said,  "I  knew  they'd  see 
reason.  Boys,  what  do  you  think?  Father's  to  do  the 
Uptown  Club  decorations  after  all!" 

"Whoop!"  said  Billy,  seeing  that  some  sign  of  rejoic- 

274 


DRIFT 

ing  was  expected,  while  Baxter  inquired,  "If  I'm  aw- 
fully quiet,  may  I  watch  you  paint?" 

Carol  Medway  clapped  her  hands.  "New  York's 
progressing,"  she  said.  "You'll  be  famous,  Lynn,  I'm 
mighty  glad." 

"When  the  twins  were  duly  rubbered,  provided  with 
lunch,  kissed  and  started  for  school,  Jane  Medway 
went  to  find  her  husband.  He  was  reading  the  Bible 
in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  and  hailed  her,  waving  the  book. 
"Listen,  oh,  listen!"  he  shouted.  "Did  you  ever  hear 
anything  so  gorgeous?" 

"  'My  beloved  is  white  and  ruddy, 

The  chiefest  among  ten  thousand. 
His  head  is  as  the  most  fine  gold, 

His  locks  are  bushy  and  black  as  a  raven. 
His  eyes  are  like  doves  beside  the  water  brooks; 

Washed  with  milk  and  fitly  set. 
His  cheeks  are  as  a  bed  of  spices, 

As  banks  of  sweet  herbs. 

His  lips  are  as  lilies,  dropping  liquid  myrrh. 

His  hands  are  as  rings  of  gold  set  with  beryl : 
His  body  is  as  ivory  work  overlaid  with  sapphires. 

His  legs  are  as  pillars  of  marble,  set  upon  sockets  of 
fine  gold: 
His  aspect  is  like  Lebanon,  excellent  as  the  cedars. 

His  mouth  is  most  sweet :  yea,  he  is  altogether  lovely 
This  is  my  beloved,  and  this  my  friend, 

0  daughters  of  Jerusalem.     .    .     . 

I  opened  to  my  beloved; 
But  my  beloved  had  withdrawn  himself  and  was 
gone. 
My  soul  had  failed  me  when  he  spake: 

1  sought  him,  but  I  could  not  find  him; 
I  called  him,  but  he  gave  me  no  answer. 

275 


DRIFT 

The  watchmen  that  go  about  the  city  found  me. 
They  smote  me,  they  wounded  me; 
The  keepers  of  the  walls  took  away  my  veil  from 
me. 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  trying  to  write  poetry  after 
that?  What's  the  use  trying  to  paint  it?  How  are  you 
ever  going  to  get  it  downt  'My  beloved  is  white  and 
ruddy' — 'His  body  is  like  ivory-work  overlaid  with  sap- 
phires!' Jane!  Jane!  I'm  mad  to  attempt  it,  but 
it's  going  to  be  done!  Why,  just  think  of  the  superb 
things  lying  there  forgotten !  It 's  wicked. ' '  He  seized 
a  piece  of  charcoal  and  began  sweeping  in  lines.  Jane 
knew  the  mood.     He  must  be  alone  to  work. 

"I  believe  you  think  the  Bible  will  perish  and  be  lost 
utterly  unless  you  rescue  it  on  canvas,"  she  said.  "I'll 
go  right  away,  but  I  had  to  come  and  tell  you  how 
happy  I  was." 

Medway  dropped  his  pipe  and  charcoal  to  take  her 
in  his  arms.  "That's  the  nicest  part,"  he  said,  and 
Jane  Medway  threw  back  her  head  for  his  kiss. 

It  was  a  year  later  that  Lynn  Medway  proposed  to 
Jane,  his  wife,  that  they  have  a  studio-tea  some  after- 
noon to  celebrate  the  completion  of  four  of  the  panels, 
those  illustrating  the  Song  of  Solomon.  There  were  to 
be  twelve  in  all,  and  the  various  people  interested  in  hav- 
ing the  club  finished  by  a  certain  date  were  greatly  dis- 
satisfied that  all  were  not  in  readiness. 

There  had  been  a  number  of  interviews  on  the  sub- 
ject productive  of  little  except  rasped  nerves.  Jane  Med- 
way voiced  her  indignation  at  the  crassness  of  commit- 
tees in  expecting  work  like  Lynn's  to  be  turned  out  at 
any  given  date.  "They  are  lucky  if  they  get  them 
in  ten  years,"  she  said.  Medway  bade  her  to  be  sure 
and  invite  the  committee,  to  "calm  them  down." 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  tea,  besides  the  puzzling 

276 


DEIFT 

Biblical  scenes,  there  were  several  new  portraits.  Mid- 
way's portraits  were  as  odd  as  his  other  work,  with 
accessories  and  backgrounds  only  he  could  produce. 
His  sitters  seemed  to  become  merely  a  part  of  his,  Med- 
way's  scheme;  an  effect  not  always  to  their  taste.  If 
any  suggestions  of  dissatisfaction  were  ventured  upon 
he  became  Whistler-like  in  his  reluctance  to  part  with 
his  treasure.  One  portrait  called  "Allegra"  was 
startlingly  different  from  the  rest;  it  represented  the 
child  Laura,  with  her  nimbus  of  yellow  hair — a  lovely, 
spiritual  thing;  another  was  of  Spencer  Crockett,  who 
came  to  hear  the  comments,  chuckling  inwardly  as  peo- 
ple glanced  from  him  to  the  picture  and  back  again. 

On  the  day  before  the  tea,  Crockett  had  been  calling 
upon  Mrs.  John  Templeton  and  had  told  Medway  he 
would  like  to  bring  her  to  the  sudio.  Eileen's  love  of 
beauty  attracted  him ;  moreover,  it  would  be  interesting 
to  see  the  effect  on  Medway 's  work  of  coming  in  contact 
with  Eileen.  He  knew  from  his  post  of  observation  that 
such  contact  was  apt  to  produce  unusual  results.  What 
would  a  portrait  of  Eileen  by  Medway  be  like  ?  Rather 
an  idea — that. 

As  he  sat  in  front  of  her  tea-table  he  pictured  her  in 
various  poses.  She  rose  to  gTeet  some  newcomers; 
the  long  lines  of  her  slim  body  with  the  clinging  stuff  of 
her  dress  following  every  curve,  seemed  to  him  very 
lovely,  very  paintable.  She  had  on  something  of  grey — 
soft  and  filmy — with  black  fur  on  it  and  jewels  of  moon- 
light blue;  certainly  she  was  good  to  look  upon. 

Of  late  years  Crockett  had  come  to  believe  that  noth- 
ing was  of  supreme  importance  but  the  creation  of  a 
fine  picture.  He  would  admit,  upon  compulsion,  that 
other  arts  had  a  certain  place,  but  for  him  painting  was 
the  highest  expression  of  the  impulse  to  create  beauty. 
He  had  become  an  ardent  collector  and  loved  to  show 

277 


DEIPT 

his  pictures  to  people  who  knew  what  they  were  look- 
ing at  and  even,  provided  their  comments  would  be 
honest,  to  those  who  did  not.  Crockett  said  no  one  was 
honest  after  five  years  of  age. 

Better  than  showing  them,  he  loved  to  go  alone  and 
turn  the  canvases  this  way  and  that  to  get  the  best  pos- 
sible light,  to  study  and  pore  over  them,  trying  to  find 
new  mysteries,  new  beauty,  discovering  for  himself 
deeper  communion  with  the  artist  soul  who^had  given 
him  such  delight.  People  often  wearied  him;  his  pic- 
tures never;  moreover,  people  had  a  horrid  trick  of 
getting  old  and  not  so  agreeable  to  look  upon  as  they 
had  been,  whereas  pictures  were  perennially  young,  per- 
ennially fair — the  one  great  joy  in  his  gay  and  lonely  life. 

Much  as  a  spectator  watches  a  play  unfold,  Crockett 
had  watched  Eileen  from  the  time  she  was  a  little,  mys- 
terious, elfin  girl  to  her  present  position  of  magnificence. 
He  had  always  had  a  curiosity  to  see  what  would  hap- 
pen next  and  a  sense  of  disappointment  that  nothing  as 
yet  had.  Her  artistic  completeness  was  a  joy  to  him, 
but  there  seemed  something  more  needed  to  make  the 
picture  satisfying.  Lately  her  eyes  had  a  look  in  them 
— Crockett  did  not  ask  what  caused  it — he  merely  ob- 
served. 

The  whimsical  picture-lover  was  one  of  the  few  peo- 
ple in  her  world  for  whom  Eileen  felt  an  affection; 
yet  curiously,  she  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  w|as  fond 
Of  her.  He  came  to  see  her  often,  was  always  ready  to 
fill  a  place  at  dinner  or  perform  any  other  friendly 
office,  but  his  air  was  detached  and  impersonal.  He  had 
a  disconcerting  way  of  making  her  talk  more  unreserv- 
edly than  she  intended;  she  would  wonder  after- 
wards why  he  had  looked  at  her  with  that  little,  faint 
smile,  that  preposterous  wink. 

There  were  those  who  asserted  that  Crockett's  wink 
was  not  uncontrollable. 

278 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  room  was  full  when  Eileen  and  Crockett  came  in, 
and  they  were  warmly  welcomed  by  Medway  and  his 
wife.  As  Eileen  studied  the  pictures  with  absorbed  at- 
tention, Medway  studied  her ;  for  Crockett,  in  love  with 
his  new  fancy,  had  drawn  him  aside  to  tell  him  of  his 
plan. 

"She  is  extremely  interesting,  of  course,"  Medway 
observed,  "but  have  you  any  reason  to  suppose  that  she 
wants  a  portrait ?" 

Crockett  made  some  slight  rejoinder  with  an  airy  ges- 
ture. He  had  set  elemental  forces  in  motion  and  con- 
sidered that  he  might  stand  aside. 

So  it  came  about  that  Mrs.  John  Templeton,  driving 
home  wrapped  in  soft  furs  against  the  cold,  thought 
about  the  strange  golden  pictures  she  had  seen,  as 
Crockett  intended  that  she  should.  He  enjoyed  her  ex- 
clamations of  pleasure  as  he  sat  beside  her.  She  con- 
tinued to  think  of  the  pictures  all  of  the  evening,  de- 
scribing them  to  John.  She  must  take  him  to  the  studio, 
she  said. 

During  the  next  few  days  various  plans  formed  them- 
selves in  her  mind  to  obtain  some  part  of  this  new 
beauty  for  her  own.  She  summoned  Crockett  for  a 
consultation,  but  he  had  no  suggestions  to  offer,  except 
the  possible  purchase  of  a  picture,  and  Eileen  wanted 
more  than  apicture.    As  she  talked  a  plan  was  born. 

279 


DEIPT 

She  would  have  some  tableaux,  beautiful  beyond  any 
that  had  ever  been  given  before — Medway  should  de- 
sign the  pictures,  costumes,  backgrounds,  all.  What 
could  he  not  do,  if  he  would? 

Crockett  drummed  on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  ''Will 
he  do  it,  I  wonder  ?"  he  said,  and  was  amused  at  Eileen's 
look  of  surprise. 

"Let's  go  ask  him  now,"  she  returned,  "it's  only  six." 
In  a  short  time  the  two  were  again  being  borne  along 
to  Medway 's  studio. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Medway  is  at  home,"  the  maid  replied; 
she  would  go  and  tell  him. 

Eileen's  ideas  had  been  developing  rapidly  on  the 
drive.  Crockett  now  warned  her,  if  she  wanted  to  secure 
his  services,  she  had  better  let  the  young  painter  under- 
stand that  he  would  have  a  free  hand. 

Medway  appeared  shortly  and  Eileen  had  got  as  far 
in  her  explanation  as  "I  thought  to  give  some  story  or 
legend  in  a  series  of  pictures,  an  old  Norse  saga  per- 
haps, or  some  oriental  wonder  tale — "  when  he  broke  in. 

"How  about  Antony  and  Cleopatra?"  he  said,  "with 
yourself  as  the  queen?" 

"Oh!"  Eileen  looked  at  Crockett,  "oh!  could  I?  I 
never  thought — "  She  was  startled  and  embarrassed 
and  excited,  and  the  two  men  found  her  radiantly 
lovely. 

"So  you  will  do  it  then?"  Crockett  threw  in.  "I  told 
Mrs.  Templeton,  in  case  the  idea  did  not  strike  you  fa- 
vourably, you  were  not  easy  to  persuade." 

*  l  It  strikes  me  Very  favourably. ' '  Medway 's  eagerness 
was  almost  as  keen  as  Eileen's.  "It  will  be  great  fun 
to  have  live  human  beings  to  work  with  instead  of  be- 
ing obliged  to  wait  and  paint  them ;  only  a  bit  more  in- 
tractable, eh?  I  hope  they  will  do  as  they  are  told, — 
make  everybody  understand  that ! ' ' 

280 


SPENCER. 
CROCKETT       { 


DRIFT 

Eileen  waved  that  difficulty  aside.  "Oh,  they  will," 
she  said,  "if  you  will  really  do  the  planning  and  direct- 
ing. Will  you?"  She  was  still  incredulous,  and  Med- 
way  was  amused  by  her  air  of  a  suppliant. 

"But,  you  know,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  tremendously  keen 
on  having  them  good.  Rather  a  nice  idea,  that — to  do 
your  darndest  to  make  a  perfectly  ^autif ul  picture  that 
will  last  only  for  a  moment  and  perhaps,  if  it  is  beau- 
tiful enough,  forever,  in  the  memory  of  the  people  who 
see  it." 

"All  any  of  us  have  when  we're  dead,"  observed 
Crockett.  '  *  I  have  some  fine  ones  stored,  if  so  be  it  I  am 
allowed  to  keep  them.  One  will  be  of  Mrs.  Templeton  at 
this  moment." 

Further  talk  followed  of  what  scenes  should  be  giv- 
en. Medway  thought  the  consecutive  outlines  of  the 
story  should  be  presented,  and  spoke  of  the  necessity  of 
different  settings  and  costumes.  "Pompey's  Galley," 
"A  Plain  Outside  the  Walls  of  Alexandria."  Crockett 
suggested  the  accompaniment  of  a  reading  of  some  of 
the  lines  "so  old  Shakespeare  might  not  be  wholly  lost 
sight  of,  the  way  the  Bible  was, ' '  but  this  was  vetoed  by 
the  other  two.  Crockett  announced  that  he  would 
henceforward  hold  his  peace,  predicting  that  they  were 
letting  themselves  in  for  an  ungodly  amount  of  trouble. 
This  remark  passed  unheeded  also. 

Things  were  not  going  entirely  as  Crockett  planned; 
but,  he  reflected,  the  ways  of  the  gods  were  inscrutable, 
often  obscure  to  the  sight  of  man.  He  would  await 
developments. 

During  the  talk  Jane  Medway  came  in  and  was  hailed 
as  Charmian.  Seven  o'clock  struck  and  Eileen  rose, 
gathering  her  long  cloak  about  her. 

' '  How  soon  can  it  be  ? ' '  she  asked,  and  was  crestfallen 
when  Medway  named  a  date  two  months  off. 

"Great  works  of  art  are  not  born  in  a  day,"  remarked 

281 


DEIFT 

Crockett.  "I  wish  you  two  joy  of  your  undertaking. 
I  shall  fold  my  hands  and  see  what  happens." 

He  enjoyed  Eileen's  excitement  on  the  way  home, 
commending  to  himself  Medway 's  quickness  in  selecting 
her  as  the  central  figure  in  his  decorative  interpretation. 

For  the  next  few  weeks,  ancient  Egypt  lived  again. 
Medway  became  so  absorbed  that  he  forsook  Ruth,  and 
Rebecca  was  left  holding  her  pitcher  with  no  hand. 
The  committee  was  outraged.  Jane  Medway  was  de- 
puted to  explain,  but  what  she  was  to  say  was  not  made 
clear  to  her;  she  was  to  keep  everybody  "as  cool  as 
possible  until  the  tableaux  were  over."  Medway  did 
not  propose  to  have  his  present  plans  interfered  with. 

One  day,  Crockett,  dropping  in  at  the  studio,  found 
him  actually  working  on  the  panels.  He  seemed  to  have 
been  having  compunctions  as  to  the  delay.  He  would 
like,  he  said,  to  get  them  out  of  the  way.  "There  wa? 
a  chap  named  Lee  from  Brewster  &  Knolls,  seemed  to 
think  the  Uptown  Club  was  the  most  important  thing 
on  earth,"  Medway  mumbled  as  he  painted,  "made 
me  visits  once  a  week,  just  to  see  how  the  decorations 
were  'getting  along,'  he  said.  The  man  developed  into 
a  pest,  but  he  was  so  engaging  you  couldn't  throw  things 
at  him.  What  do  you  think  he  did  once?  Made  me 
promise  I'd  have  the  blamed  things  all  done  in  six 
months!    Made  me  promise!    He  hasn't  come  lately." 

"No,  nor  ever  will,"  Crockett  spoke  slowly,  his  mind 
going  back  to  the  afternoon  he  had  bade  Helen  good- 
bye. ' '  He  married  a  beautiful  girl,  a  very  beautiful  girl, 
a  few  years  ago.  It's  a  sad  story — I  think  he  was  a 
faun,  only  a  faun." 

Medway  was  not  listening  and  Crockett  said  no  more. 

As  he  walked  homeward,  he  wished  that  he  could  see 
Helen  again.  He  wondered  if  she  had  come  back  from 
California  and  decided  to  find  out  and  ask  if  he  might 
come.    Perhaps  there  would  be  something  that  he  could 

282 


DEIFT 

do;  she  had  seemed  glad  of  his  visit  before  she  went 
away.  He  cherished  his  love  for  her,  acknowledged  that 
he  did  so  to  himself :  in  his  own  eyes  it  ennobled  him — to 
care  so  much.  To  love  as  he  now  loved  surprised  him 
almost  as  much  as  it  would  have  surprised  Helen,  had 
she  known.  He  had  always  watched  the  torments  and 
ecstasies  of  others  with  a  detached  wonder;  his  own 
previous  love  affairs  had  been  conducted  with  a  cool  deli- 
cacy calculated  to  leave  no  sting,  but  this  was  different. 
He  asked  nothing  for  himself,  all  that  he  wanted  was  to 
serve  her.  With  all  the  pain,  he  was  glad  that  he  could 
love  like  that.  Strange  that  it  should  give  him  satisfac- 
tion to  see  his  plans  in  regard  to  Medway  and  Eileen 
progressing.  It  was  too  bad  there  had  to  be  so  much 
pain,  but  that  was  the  way  Art  was  born.  It  would  be  a 
great  picture;  it  would  live  long  after  those  who  had 
suffered  to  bring  it  into  being  had  ceased  to  be.  It  must 
be  painted,  no  matter  at  what  cost. 

There  were,  of  course,  innumerable  difficulties  with 
the  rehearsals  for  the  tableaux;  the  actors  didn't  arrive, 
and  when  they  did  they  would  not  heed.  Medway  was 
impressed  with  Eileen's  good  humour.  His  own  temper 
was  uncertain,  but  his  wrath  at  the  maddeningly  casual 
ways  of  the  participants  melted  before  her  graciousness. 
Moreover,  she  was  an  actress.  It  was  amusing  to  see 
her  turn  from  Cleopatra's  murderous  fury  to  greet 
smilingly  some  late  comer's  apologies. 

She  and  Medway  supplemented  each  other's  ideas 
with  quick  understanding.  Her  sense  of  form  was  as 
quick  as  his  and  she  was  better  at  seeing  what  must 
be  eliminated.  Often  he  would  say,  "Go  ahead  now — 
you  group  the  others.' '  She  was  learning  under  his 
guidance  and  found  joy  in  the  hard  work  involved. 
Her  imperial  manner  of  commanding  what  was 
needed  was  a  delight  to  him,  it  was  so  in  keeping  with 

283 


DEIFT 

the  part  that  she  impersonated.  In  designing  her  cos- 
tume for  the  court  scene  Medway  had  observed,  "I 
wish  there  could  be  a  train  of  peacock's  plumes !" 

1 '  Why  not  ? ' 9  said  Eileen.  ' '  Are  there^not  peacocks  ? ' ' 
In  due  time  a  long,  straight  piece  of  the  strange 
fabric  appeared — shimmering,  iridescent,  a  glory  of 
green  and  blue.  No  one  but  "the  young  man  at  John's 
office"  knew  how  it  was  obtained  or  the  awful  cost,  and 
the  entertainment  had  by  that  time  caused  him  so  many 
shocks,  the  peacock-feathered  garment  was  but  one 
more  incredible  item.  As  he  added  up,  his  thoughts 
travelled  to  the  girl  he  wanted  to  marry.  They  could 
set  up  housekeeping  he  remarked  to  himself,  if  they 
had  the  price  of  that  one  shimmering  garment.  Medway 
admired  it  so  rapturously  Eileen  told  him  that  "after 
the  show"  he  must  have  it  for  a  studio  " property.' ' 

Finally  the  lovely  accessories  were  all  in  readiness, 
the  actors  as  well  drilled  as  they  were  ever  likely  to  be 
and  the  date  of  the  performance  drew  near. 

About  midway  in  the  rehearsals  someone  had  sug- 
gested that  tickets  be  sold  and  the  proceeds  devoted 
to  charity,  so  a  hall  was  rented,  which  was  "found 
more  convenient  anyway,' '  and  tickets  sold  at  twenty 
dollars  apiece.  The  plan  was  not  wholly  to  Eileen's 
liking,  but  her  conscience  had  been  pricking  her  in 
regard  to  a  good  many  neglected  committee  meetings, 
and  this  seemed  an  easy  way  of  squaring  her  obligations. 
She  agreed,  telling  those  who  were  anxious  for  the 
plan  that  she  would  defray  all  expenses,  as  she  had 
intended.  Everything  they  could  make  would  there- 
fore be  clear  gain  to  the  charity  selected — a  most  pleas- 
ing idea  the  committee  thought.  To  the  very  great 
surprise  of  those  advocating  the  benefit  plan,  there  was 
some  difficulty  experienced  in  finding  a  charity  willing 
to  accept  the  proceeds.  One  superintendent  in  his  letter 
of  declination  made  the  enigmatic  statement  that  his 

284 


DRIFT 

organisation  was  ' '  too  advanced. ' '  Finally  a  struggling 
Day  Nursery,  badly  in  need  of  a  new  building,  agreed 
to  accept  thankfully  any  moneys  that  might  be  forth- 
coming and  so  the  matter  was  arranged.  The  programme 
for  the  tableaux  had  a  frontispiece  of  a  wan-looking 
infant  being  received  by  a  neat  nurse  in  uniform  at  the 
door  of  a  flower-bedecked  Nursery;  on  the  opposite 
side  the  same  infant,  fat  and  rosy,  was  being  handed 
back  at  night.  It  chanced  that  Medway  did  not  see  the 
programme  until  the  night  of  the  performance.  He 
picked  one  up  and  his  expression  was  queer.  He  turned 
to  Eileen  for  sympathy  and  found  her  smile  of  appreci- 
ation consoling.  ' '  At  our  show ! ' '  he  said.  '  '  Good  God, 
who  did  it?" 

"I  told  them  just  to  go  ahead,  and  evidently  they 
did,"  said  Eileen.    "I'm  so  sorry!" 

Finally  came  the  last  dress  rehearsal. 

11  'Nothing  is  lost  that  is  born  with  tears,'  "  quoted 
Spencer  Crockett,  coming  in  upon  a  dejected  assemblage 
in  gorgeous  and  eccentric  array.  He  joined  John 
Templeton,  sitting  in  one  of  the  boxes,  and  watched  one 
or  two  scenes. 

"Must  be  awe-inspiring  to  have  your  wife  look  like 
that,"  he  observed,  seating  himself,  but  John's  lips  did 
not  relax.  It  was  conveyed  to  Crockett  that  he  hated 
the  whole  thing.  Crockett  was  sorry;  he  liked  John, 
liked  him  very  much  indeed,  but  he  was,  there  could 
be  no  doubt  about  it,  rather  stern  at  times.  Why  not 
simply  enjoy  the  beauty  before  him?  Was  not  that, 
after  all,  the  really  important  thing? 

It  was  the  scene  in  the  palace  where  the  messenger 
brings  to  Cleopatra  the  news  of  Antony's  marriage 
to  Octavia.  There  were  perhaps  one  hundred  people  on 
the  stage,  arranged  in  geometric  symmetry  of  attitude 
and  grouping.  The  queen  had  just  struck  the  mes- 
senger down  and  stood  above  him,  her  hands  against 

285 


DEIFT 

her  breast,  palms  outwards,  her  face  sharply  in  profile, 
her  feet  straight.  Her  body  was  wrapped  in  a  thin 
tissue  of  brown  and  gold,  her  hair  cut  straight  around 
the  neck;  on  her  head  gleamed  a  fan-like  head-dress  of 
jewels  with  a  gold  serpent  coiled  around  her  forehead : 
from  her  shoulders  fell  the  robe  of  peacock's  plumes. 
Every  line,  every  colour  in  the  picture,  seemed  to  accen- 
tuate the  fury  of  the  queen. 

As  the  curtain  fell,  Crockett  clapped  his  hands  like  a 
madman  and  then,  chilled  by  John's  silence,  left  the 
box  to  find  more  congenial  company.  He  expressed 
anxiety  that  it  could  not  possibly  be  so  beautiful,  so 
perfect,  on  the  following  night,  but  the  performers 
assured  him  that  it  would.  "I'm  sure  we've  posed  for 
that  scene  one  thousand  times, ' '  Iris  remarked. 

The  next  day,  Crockett,  dropping  into  the  studio, 
found  Med  way  in  a  state  of  despair.  Nothing,  nothing 
had  been  right !  The  whole  thing  would  be  an  utter  fail- 
ure ;  he  had  been  a  confounded  ass  to  let  himself  in  for 
such  a  thing.  Mrs.  Templeton  was  a  wonder.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  her  he  would  have  thrown  it  up.  He 
stormed  about  while  Crockett  smoked  and  smiled. 

Finally  the  evening  came.  The  audience  was  beauti- 
ful in  itself,  gay  and  bejewelled  and  soft  of  scent. 
Five  minutes  after  the  hour  announced,  the  doors  were 
closed  and  the  lights  put  out,  a  temple  bell  boomed  out 
its  slow-ringing  notes,  and  the  curtain  parted  on  Antony 
and  Cleopatra. 

Behold  them !  The  great  Egyptian,  the  great  Roman, 
Immortal  Lovers !  Face  to  face  they  stand,  the  figures 
in  direct  profile,  challenging,  mad,  glorious;  behind 
them  the  golden  sands  of  the  desert — a  far,  green  oasis ; 
the  winding,  serpent  shape  of  the  yellow  Nile. 

Eileen  had  said  to  Crockett  weeks  before,  "More 
beautiful  than  any  tableaux  ever  given  before."  She 
was  not  wrong.  Each  scene  was  dominated  by  one  colour 

286 


DRIFT 

combined  with  gold  and  black.  The  arrangement  of  the 
groups  was  formal  in  the  extreme  and  the  lines  as  subtly 
calculated  as  the  colour  to  bring  out  the  dominating  idea. 

The  climax  was  reached  in  one  scene  representing 
Cleopatra  on  the  city  wall  watching  for  Antony.  On 
the  ledge  of  brown  stone,  her  women  gathered  below, 
crouched  the  woman  Cleopatra,  eager  for  her  lover.  No 
queen  now,  only  the  sinuous,  passionate  creature,  wild 
for  Antony's  arms.  The  pose  was  odd,  the  body  relaxed, 
leaning  back,  all  the  desire  in  the  eyes.  The  costume  Med- 
way  had  designed,  a  close-clinging  corselet  of  green  from 
the  armpits  almost  to  the  knees,  and  below  a  pleated 
skirt  of  gold  gauze,  leaving  the  feet  bare,  showed  every 
curve  of  the  lithe  body.  As  the  picture  was  slowly 
flooded  with  brilliant  golden  light,  as  from  a  setting  sun, 
there  was  the  tribute  of  a  moment  of  perfect  silence, 
then  wild  applause.  On  and  on  went  the  tumult  of 
clapping  hands  and  demanding  voices,  but  the  vision 
would  not  come  again;  it  was  gone  forever. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening  there  were  several  hundred 
delighted  and  astonished  people,  several  hundred  more 
exceedingly  tired  ones,  and  twenty  thousand  dollars  for 
the  Day  Nursery.  During  the  intermission  an  engag- 
ing nursery  infant,  bescrubbed  and  becurled,  clad  in 
" rompers' '  and  wearing  a  wondering  expression,  had 
been  steered  gently  about  among  the  audience,  holding 
out  a  porringer,  into  which  contributions  were  liberally 
poured. 

Eileen  was  very  happy.  Her  "show"  had  succeeded 
beyond  her  expectations,  and  deeper  than  all  the  rest 
was  a  delicate  sense  of  excitement  in  Medway's  presence. 
They  had  hardly  met  alone,  or  spoken  to  each  other  on 
any  other  topic  than  the  pictures,  yet  something  had 
sprung  into  being,  unacknowledged,  unexpressed,  pre- 
saging unknown  things. 

3S7 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

CROCKETT,  from  his  eerie,  whence  he  watched  the 
ways  of  men,  noted  how  Medway  turned  at  the 
sound  of  Eileen's  voice,  noted  the  look  in  his  eyes  as  he 
watched  her  and  thought  to  himself,  "What  a  picture 
that  will  be!" 

Going  to  see  Medway  a  few  days  later,  he  found 
him  in  a  temper.  His  "love-scenes  from  the  Bible' '  had 
lost  their  flavour ;  he  was  stale  on  them,  he  could  do  no 
more.  The  chairman  of  the  house  committee  had  paid 
him  a  call  that  morning  and  suggested  a  time  limit  to  the 
accomplishment  of  the  series.  He  had  even  hinted  some- 
thing about  payment  being  contingent  on  this  date.  Dis- 
gusting lot !  He  would  never  have  anything  to  do  with 
clubs  again,  never ! 

Crockett  allowed  him  to  fume  until  he  had  soothed 
himself  in  the  process,  putting  in  an  occasional  appro- 
priate word  of  agreement;  and  then  made  known  the 
purpose  of  his  call.  Would  Medway  paint  a  picture 
of  Mrs.  Templeton  in  the  scene  watching  from  the  city 
wall,  without  the  other  women,  of  course,  only  the  figure 
of  the  queen? 

Medway  swung  around  from  his  canvas.  "Do  you 
think — do  you  think  she  would  let  me  ! ' '  he  said. 

He  looked  very  boyish  and  eager  and  beautiful  as 
he  stood  there  before  Crockett.    Carol  Medway  insisted 

288 


DRIFT 

that  her  brother  "looked  the  part"  too  well.  He  had 
a  great  scorn  for  long  hair  or  pointed  beards,  or  any 
insignia ;  nevertheless,  his  intense  eyes,  his  curved,super- 
cilious  mouth,  the  scornful  lilt  to  his  head,  proclaimed 
the  artist. 

"I'd  love  to  do  it,"  he  added.  "Jove,  what  a  pose!" 
He  took  a  bit  of  paper  and  sketched  the  scene,  then 
hunted  up  the  colour  design  he  had  made  for  the  tableau, 
holding  his  hand  over  the  group  of  waiting  women  in 
the  lower  half.    "I  believe  you're  right,"  he  said. 

"You  never  conceived  a  finer  picture,  just  as  a  piece 
of  decoration,"  Crockett  told  him.  "It  ought  not  to 
perish,  but  do  you  suppose  you  can  actually  do  it  in 
paint?" 

That  afternoon  Crockett  was  sitting  at  Eileen's  tea- 
table  waiting  for  others  to  go  to  broach  to  her  his  plans. 
He  was  saved  the  need. 

There  was  Munro,  splendid  to  look  upon,  who  had 
taken  the  part  of  Antony,  also  Octavia  and  Diomedes 
and  Caesar  and  various  lesser  lights,  all  congratulating 
themselves  and  each  other  on  the  success  of  the  enter- 
tainment. 

"Mrs.  Templeton,  you  ought  to  be  painted  as 
Cleopatra,"  some  one  remarked.  "You  were  so  wonder- 
ful!   It  is  wicked  to  lose  that  vision." 

"Yes,  in  that  watching  scene  on  the  city  wall," 
chimed  another.  ' 1  That  was  the  loveliest  of  all. ' '  Crock- 
ett smiled  to  himself — the  fainest  little  thin  smile,  much 
like  Buddha's  watching  in  his  shrine  above  him. 

"Would  you  pose  for  Medway?"  Crockett  asked  her 
after  the  others  had  gone,  and  Eileen,  with  a  quick  leap 
of  the  heart,  said,  "Yes — oh,  yes." 

Next  day,  the  deus  ex  machina  of  art  was  at  Jane 
Medway's  tea-table,  making  himself  agreeable.  Jane 
had  not  enjoyed  the  tableaux.  For  one  thing  she  was 
worried  about  the  club  decorations.    She  was  of  a  hum- 

289 


DRIFT 

ble  nature,  worshipful  of  her  brilliant  husband,  and 
anxious  to  advance  his  success.  She  was  generally  un- 
critical of  what  he  did,  but  the  weeks  that  he  spent  in 
designing  and  rehearsing  the  tableaux  seemed  to  her 
foolish,  and  deep  down  in  her  heart  was  a  little  ach- 
ing pain  that  she  hated  to  admit  was  there. 

When  Medway  came  in,  Crockett  hailed  him  joyously. 
"Your  brown  queen  will  pose  for  you!"  he  said,  and 
caught,  as  he  turned,  Jane's  quick  look.  "Ah,  that's 
too  bad!"  he  thought. 

Medway  was  alt. eagerness.  "That  is  good!"  he  said. 
"Well  have  the  city  wall  as  you  said,  and  by  Jove, 
we'll  call  it  'The  Brown  Queen.'  It  was  a  bully  pic- 
ture, wasn't  it?  She  understands  it  isn't  a  portrait, 
an  order,  I  mean  ?  She  won't  want  it?  If  I  could  once 
get  her  on  canvas  as  she  was  that  night,  I  'd  never  be  able 
to  part  with  it." 

"There  was  nothing  said  about  a  portrait,"  Crockett 
assured  him,  "but  you'd  better  make  it  clear.  You 
ought  to  do  something  fine,  Medway." 

Jane  added  an  expression  of  pleasure  and  then  re- 
marked that  she  would  find  it  difficult  to  find  time  to 
pose,  and  had  the  others  been  consulted? 

"We're  going  to  leave  the  waiting- women  off,"  Med- 
way told  her,  and  went  on  outlining  to  Crockett  how  he 
planned  to  improve  on  the  tableau  design.  Charac- 
teristically a  few  moments  later,  he  was  in  his  studio 
making  sketches, — little  graceful  studies  of  Eileen's 
head,  of  the  relaxed  hand,  of  the  forehead  and  eyes  with 
their  look  of  the  passion-possessed  woman  waiting  for 
her  lover. 

Crockett's  plans  were  succeeding  better  than  he 
hoped,  but  there  was  a  cheque  in  store.  The  next  time 
he  saw  Eileen  she  confided  to  him  that  John  did  not 
approve  of  the  plan  for  the  picture.  She  was  rueful 
about  it. 

290 


DRIFT 

"He  didn't  say  anything  at  all  when  I  told  him," 
she  said,  "so  I  knew.     Perhaps  I  had  better  not." 

Here  was  a  difficulty!  Crockett  suggested  to  Eileen 
that  he  would  dine  with  her  any  time  in  the  future  that 
she  wished  to  ask  him.  She  named  a  date  and  asked 
what  he  was  going  to  say  to  John,  but  Crockett  would 
not  reveal  his  methods. 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  he  said,  "but  I  want  to  see  you 
painted  by  Medway.  I  am  sure  John's  objections  aren't 
serious." 

When  the  evening  came,  he  sought  a  moment  after 
dinner,  when  the  rest  of  the  men  were  intent  on  a  dis- 
cussion and  took  a  chair  near  his  host's. 

"Will  you  pardon  a  very  intimate  thing  I  want  to 
say?"  he  began  and  went  on  without  waiting  for  per- 
mission. "I  have  known  Eileen  since  she  was  a  baby,  you 
know.  She  is  grievously  disappointed  now  at  your  ob- 
jections to  the  picture  of  her  as  Cleopatra.  She  would 
not  have  told  me  except  that  I  rather  forced  the  ac- 
knowledgment. Medway  is  a  genius;  he'll  make  some- 
thing splendidly  worth  while.  Almost  a  pity  it  should 
not  come  into  being,  isn't  it?" 

A  hard  look  had  formed  itself  on  John's  impassive 
face.    "I  made  no  objections,"  he  said. 

"Didn't  you?"  Crockett's  surprise  was  manifest. 
1 '  Then  why  did  she  tell  me  she  must  give  up  the  plan  ? ' ' 
He  saw  that  his  host  was  intensely  annoyed  and  fearful 
they  would  be  overheard.    He  turned  to  the  general  talk. 

After  the  guests  had  gone,  John  went  to  his  wife's 
dressing-room  door  and  knocked.  He  had  been  smok- 
ing and  thinking  downstairs,  and  decided  that  he  had 
no  authority  to  interfere  with  Eileen  if  she  wished  the 
picture,  wished  to  pose  for  it.  In  his  own  mind  he 
knew  that  it  was  convention,  not  reality,  that  was  at 
the  root  of  his  opposition ;  merely  a  feeling  of  reluctance 
that  his  wife,  his  property,  should  be  so  portrayed :  not 

291 


DRIFT 

the  instinctive  protection  of  something  precious,  some- 
thing loved. 

"lam  sorry  I  seemed  unwilling  about  the  picture  of 
iCleopatra,,,  he  said.  "Of  course,  do  as  you  want  to. 
You  were  lovely  in  the  costume.  I  think  I  was  rather 
weary  of  the  whole  subject  of  the  tableaux — when  you 
spoke  to  me,  I  mean/' 

Eileen  held  out  her  hand.  "I  am  so  glad  you  don't 
mind/'  she  said,  and  they  bade  each  other  good-night. 

She  could  not  sleep.  She  was  excited  and  happy  and 
afraid.    What  would  the  next  few  weeks  hold? 

Lynn  Medway  came  to  see  her,  very  simple  and  direct 
in  his  expressions  of  delight  at  the  prospect  of  the  pic- 
ture. 

"Crockett  calls  it  'The  Brown  Queen/  "  he  said. 
"Ill  make  something  good,  I  think.  I  can't  tell  you 
what  it  means  to  me,  your  being  willing  to  pose.  It  is 
an  awful  task,  you  know.  You  won't  want  it  when  it 
is  finished,  will  you?" 

Eileen  laughed.  "From  the  way  you  speak  it  would 
not  be  much  use  if  I  did." 

"Well,  you  see,"  Medway  was  serious,  "I  am  at- 
tempting a  big  thing.  I  am  going  to  paint  the  East 
and  Cleopatra  and  you.  If  it's  good,  it  will  be  the 
biggest  thing  I  have  ever  accomplished;  if  it's  bad,  it 
can't  exist,  that's  all." 

"I  see,"  said  Eileen,  "I  promise  not  to  lay  claims, 
and  I  don 't  think  my  husband  will. ' '  A  little  pang  came 
to  her.  She  knew  what  John  thought,  but  she  had  chos- 
en not  to  heed.  It  was  not  quite  fair  of  him.  All 
through  the  excitement  of  the  tableaux  he  had  held 
aloof,  sometimes  for  days  she  hardly  saw  him;  no,  cer- 
tainly he  would  not  want  the  picture. 

There  was  a  matter  about  which  Eileen  wished  to 
speak  to  Medway  that  embarrassed  her  greatly.  It 
concerned  what  he  should  be  paid  for  his  services  in 

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connection  with  the  tableaux.  She  had  besought  Crockett 
to  find  out  for  her,  but  Crockett,  with  a  malicious  glee, 
declined  the  mission. 

Nothing  had  ever  been  said  on  the  subject,  Eileen  hop- 
ing that  it  would  come  about  naturally;  but  it  now 
seemed  that  some  understanding  must  be  reached. 
After  that  first  talk  at  Medway's  apartment  she  had 
asked  Crockett  on  the  way  home  about  an  honorarium. 
"Don't  worry/ '  he  had  replied,  "Lynn  Medway's 
prices  are  high  and  getting  higher  rapidly.  He'll 
charge  you  a  fortune  for  this. ' ' 

As  Medway  rose  to  go,  she  summoned  her  courage. 
"Mr.  Medway,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  say  something  to 
you.  You  know  there  must  come  an  hour  of  reckon- 
ing." 

Medway  stared.  Her  words  startled  him  profoundly, 
they  came  too  near  something  he  had  determinedly  put 
out  of  his  own  mind.    "Yes?"  he  said. 

Eileen  stood  looking  down  into  a  teacup.  Her  aspect 
was  as  one  convicted  of  guilt.  "Well,  you  know,  Mr. 
Medway,  you've  spent  a  lot  of  time  on  the  tableaux; 
as  for  the  rest,  there's  no  expressing  the  beauty,  the 
wonder  of  it  all,  what  you've  done,  I  mean."  She  came 
to  a  full  stop  and  looked  at  him  helplessly. 

"Yes?"  he  said  again. 

* '  Well !  We  've  got  to  talk  business  some  time,  haven 't 
we?"  she  burst  out  in  a  kind  of  desperation. 

Medway's  expression  changed  suddenly.  He  broke 
into  an  amused  laugh.  "You  mean,  what  do  I  want  to 
be  paid?" 

"Yes,"  said  Eileen,  "that  is  exactly  what  I  mean.  I 
don't  see  why  it  is  so  funny.  It  seemed  to  take  you  a 
long  time  to  understand.    I  was  very  uncomfortable." 

"It  did,"  said  Medway.  "You  were  so  very  delicate! 
You  began  with  such  portentous  words!     'There  must 

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DRIFT 

come  an  hour  of  reckoning.'  I  was  alarmed,  I  was 
truly/  *  and  merriment  again  seized  him. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  to  be  paid?"  said  Eileen, 
laughing  with  him. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Medway  in  a  low  voice,  his  face 
grave  again.  He  drew  his  chair  close  to  hers.  "But 
you  needn't  feel  that  you  must  send  it  all  at  once  or 
right  away.  I  know  the  other  expenses  have  been  very 
heavy,  and  you've  been  tremendously  generous.  Take  a 
year  or  two  if  you  like." 

Eileen  looked  at  him  with  a  queer  expression.  She 
was  not  used  to  being  teased,  and  this  seemed  very  much 
like  it. 

"But  tell  me  what  it  is — how  much,  I  mean." 

Medway  put  his  face  close  to  hers.  She  caught  the 
faint  tobacco  scent  of  his  coat,  and  her  breath  quickened. 
He  was  almost  touching  her.  He  prolonged  the  mo- 
ment, for  the  nearness  caught  him.  "Nothing,"  he 
whispered  and  sat  back,  laughing. 

Eileen  took  to  stammered  protests. 

"Now,  let's  be  serious,"  said  Medway.  "Forgive  my 
nonsense,  but  you  were  so  enchanting  in  the  way  you  ap- 
proached the  horrible  topic,  so  different  from  the  club 
committee!  I  couldn't  resist.  Now  I'll  explain  all. 
When  you  and  Crockett  went  off  that  afternoon  I  re- 
solved to  charge  you  a  fabulous  sum.  I  knew  it  would 
be  no  end  troublesome  and  take  everything  I  had  in 
me  to  give  to  make  it  go.  Well,  now  I  feel  differently. 
I  've  learned  a  lot  that  I  'm  glad  to  get  hold  of,  and  I  've 
had  a  mighty  good  time.  It's  all  been  bully,  hasn't  it? 
I  'm  so  glad  you  asked  me,  so  awfully  glad ! "  He  held 
out  his  hand  and  Eileen  put  hers  in  it.  He  glanced 
keenly  at  her  as  he  released  her  hand.  She  had  a  few 
more  protests  to  make. 

"If  you're  uneasy,  give  the  cheque  to  the  babies,"  he 
laughed.    "When  shall  we  begin?    Tomorrow?    No? 

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DEIFT 

The  next  day?  Good.  Yon '11  come  surely.  I'll  be 
ready/ '  He  had  her  hand  again  and  kept  it.  "And 
the  best  of  it  all  is  knowing  you,,,  he  said. 

Medway  had  the  city  wall  of  Alexandria  in  readiness 
when  she  came — tremulous  and  excited. 

Jane  Medway  and  Sophie  dressed  her  in  the  Cleopatra 
costume.  She  felt  curiously  unclad  in  the  morn- 
ing light  of  the  studio.  She  was  soon  to  discover 
that  posing  to  be  painted  and  posing  for  a  tableau  were 
very  different  things.  Sitting  in  the  angle  of  a  wall 
with  one  foot  under  you  and  a  passionate  look  in  your 
eyes  can  become  quite  agonising.  Eileen  looked  very 
strange  and  young,  coiled  up  on  her  perch.  Her  supple 
body  yielded  itself  instantly  to  any  suggestion  of  Med- 
way 's  as  to  position.  "Oh,  what  a  model l"  he  thought, 
"what  lines !"  The  slim  beauty  of  the  one  little  brown 
foot  and  ankle  visible  made  Jane  Medway  wince. 

Finally  everything  was  ready  and  Medway  began  to 
draw.  Eileen  sat  motionless.  She  wanted  to  do  what 
he  expected  of  her,  wanted  to  please  him.  Sophie  took 
out  a  little  bag  of  sewing  materials,  moved  her  chair  to 
the  far  end  of  the  studio,  and  with  one  inscrutable  look 
at  her  mistress  fixed  her  attention  upon  her  needlework. 
After  a  moment  or  two  Jane  Medway  withdrew 
and  the  minutes  went  slowly  by.  Every  now  and  again 
Medway  would  step  back  from  his  easel  and  squint  at 
her  sharply  across  his  charcoal.  A  spider  let  itself 
down  from  the  ceiling  and  waved  about,  seeking  what  it 
might  devour.  Finding  nothing  it  hauled  itself  up 
again  and  was  no  more  seen.  Eons  went  by,  then  more 
eons;  eternity  was  near.  To  her  dismay  Eileen  felt 
two  tears  form  themselves  under  her  eyelids,  brim  over 
and  roll  down  her  cheeks.  She  was  terribly  ashamed 
and  hoped  they  would  pass  unnoticed,  but  two  more 
came  and  then  a  sniff. 

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"Good  Lord/'  said  Medway,  "you're  crying!  What 
is  it?"  He  was  all  concern  and  the  alarmed  Sophie 
sprang  to  assist. 

"It  hurts/ '  said  Eileen,  releasing  her  left  foot  and 
holding  on  to  it,  " hurts  awfully.  I  don't  feel  at  all 
(queenly  and  I'm  so  cold!" 

"But  why  didn't  you  get  down?"  Medway  asked  in 
deep  concern. 

"I  thought  I  was  to  keep  still,"  said  Eileen;  "can  I 
get  down  right  in  the  middle  like  that,  before  you  stop?" 
She  looked  up,  starry-eyed. 

Medway  had  an  impulse  to  take  her  in  his  arms  to 
comfort  her.  It  seemed  the  only  thing  to  do,  but  there 
was  that  damned  maid. 

As  for  Eileen,  she  was  thinking  that  if  her  foot  was 
going  to  hurt  like  that  all  the  time,  she  never  could  do 
it ;  besides,  she  was  very  cold.  Life  had  not  fitted  Eileen 
for  the  endurance  of  pain  and  cold. 

Medway  was  full  of  compunction.  He  called  himself 
a  brute  and  a  blackguard,  a  thoughtless  ass,  feared  she 
would  never  come  again — what  must  she  think  of  him? 
When  Eileen  became  assured  that  she  could  move  at 
will  and  heard  orders  given  for  more  heat  to  be  turned 
on,  she  was  happier.  After  more  extravagances  from 
Medway  and  protests  from  her,  they  agreed  upon  posing 
two  minutes  at  a  time  to  start  with.  Assuring  him  that 
she  was  "all  right  now,"  she  climbed  back  onto  the 
walls  of  Alexandria  and  drooped  into  Cleopatra. 

Those  hours  in  the  studio  were  curious  ones  for 
Eileen.  It  was  years  since  she  had  had  so  much  time 
to  think.  Posing  became  easier  after  a  little,  and  as 
she  sat  there  day  after  day  in  perfect  quiet,  she  became 
conscious  of  being  in  the  presence  of  a  power  that  at- 
tracted her  intensely,  while  it  won  from  her  a  deep 
respect.  Medway  worked.  He  seemed  to  forget  the 
world,  forget  her,  forget  everything.    As  in  the  early 

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days  of  her  marriage,  she  saw  that  a  man's  work  may  be 
more  important  to  him  than  a  Woman.  At  first  she 
could  not  understand ;  then  it  came  to  her  that  although 
he  hardly  answered  when  she  spoke  and  often  seemed 
as  if  unaware  of  her  presence,  nevertheless,  it  was  that 
unspoken  thing  between  them  that  was  driving  him  and 
that  was  making  her  sit  hour  after  hour,  aching  and 
stiff,  to  give  him  what  he  needed  from  her. 

Sometimes  he  would  paint  very  little,  only  look  at  her 
gravely,  thirstingly.  Sometimes  Eileen  would  hear  him 
muttering, — "God,  if  I  could  get  it  down!"  Well  was 
it  for  those  two  that  the  grave  and  sedate  Sophie, 
representing  the  great  "thou  shalt  not"  of  the  world 
about  them,  sat  sewing  in  the  corner.  In  spite  of 
her  guardianship  the  old  primitive  flame  was  gather- 
ing strength  as  this  passionate  lover  of  beauty  stood 
watching  the  delicate  body,  the  lighted  eyes  of  his 
"brown  queen." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

NOTHING  is  lost  that  is  born  with  tears,"  Crockett 
had  quoted.  The  words  came  to  Jane  Medway's 
mind  as  she  lay,  face  downward,  on  her  bed,  praying 
to  some  power  to  tell  her  what  to  do,  how  to  act.  She 
told  herself  she  was  glad  of  Medway's  absorption,  glad 
of  his  delight  in  the  picture;  if  any  one  else  could  give 
him  what  she  could  not,  she  was  glad  of  that,  too,  but  oh 
the  ache,  the  dreadful  ache!  Since  their  marriage,  she 
had  shared  everything  that  he  had  done,  each  phase  of 
hope  and  despair  and  doubt ;  she  had  sympathised  with 
his  difficulties,  rejoiced  with  him  at  the  final  accomplish- 
ment and  now — she  was  shut  out!  Even  bitterer  than 
the  knowledge  of  his  new  passion  was  the  feeling  that 
she  had  no  part  in  this  new  creation,  this  picture  that 
was  so  fine  a  piece  of  work,  the  high  point  of  his  genius. 

It  was  as  if  there  were  a  child,  a  beautiful,  wonderful 
child,  who  had  a  right  to  live,  who  must  live;  another 
woman  had  given  it  to  him  because  his  desire  had  gone 
out  to  her  with  all  the  fresh  strength  of  love,  new-born. 
A  picture  was  like  a  child,  she  thought,  there  must  be 
joy,  ecstasy,  labour  and  bitter  pain,  only  why  had  she 
to  suffer?  If  she  had  only  known,  if  she  could  have 
gone  away!     How  was  she  to  go  through  the  days? 

Carol  Medway  said  nothing,  but  Jane  knew  the  girl 
was   troubled.     They    spoke    of   the    picture    and    its 

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progress,  unwilling  to  admit  that  there  was  any  reason 
for  not  doing  so,  yet  neither  paid  those  little,  happy 
visits  to  the  studio  that  had  been  a  part  of  the  love  scenes 
from  the  Bible.    They  were  afraid. 

And  Medway  himself?  If  he  thought  of  Jane,  it  was 
only  for  a  moment.  She  was  as  usual,  he  supposed.  If 
he  wondered  about  her  his  mind  was  soon  at  rest;  she 
made  no  sign,  no  outcry.  Day  and  night  his  thoughts 
were  with  his  "brown  queen/ '  for  picture  and  model 
had  become  one.  He  dwelt  apart,  moving  in  his  dream- 
world of  beauty — the  beauty  of  his  own  creating.  Only 
the  child  Laura  seemed  able  to  reach  him.  She  would 
climb  into  his  lap  and  burrow  her  fair  head  on  his 
breast,  crooning  her  little  love  song,  and  he  would  hold 
her  close  and  be  glad  of  her  unquestioning  companion- 
ship. 

The  picture  was  nearing  completion.  No  one  had 
been  allowed  to  see  it  and  great  curiosity  was  expressed. 

One  day  as  Eileen  rose  to  go,  Medway  protested.  "Oh, 
Mrs.  Templeton,  I  can't  let  you  go  now!  Please  give 
me  another  half  hour.  Take  a  rest  for  a  little,  but  don 't 
leave  me !  I  'm  a  brute  to  keep  you  posing  so  long,  but 
don't  go,  please  don't  go,  I  need  you  so  much!" 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  that  told  Eileen  his  desire 
was  not  for  the  picture  but  for  her.  "Very  well,"  she 
assented,  "I'll  send  Sophie  home  for  lunch.  She  can 
come  back  to  dress  me."  Medway  gave  her  a  quick 
glance. 

The  quiet  Sophie  rose,  rolled  up  her  work,  got  into 
her  jacket  and  disappeared.  There  was  silence  while 
Medway  painted,  seemingly  wholly  absorbed.  After  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  Eileen  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"Oh,  mayn't  I  rest?"  she  said.  "If  you  knew  how 
tired  my  knees  were !" 

Medway  looked  at  her,  but  said  nothing.  Then  he  put 
down  his  palette  and  brought  her  wrap,  assisting  her 

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DRIFT 

down.    She  dropped  onto  the  couch  and  shut  her  eyes. 

"I've  wearied  you!"  Medway 's  voice  was  low,  "but 
I  think  you're  glad,  aren't  you?  "We've  made  some- 
thing, you  and  I,  made  it  live  and  it's  good!  Do  you 
remember  the  day  I  told  you  that  I  was  going  to  paint 
the  East  and  Cleopatra  and  you?  Well,  I've  done  it; 
you've  been  wonderful!  I  don't  know  how  to  say  to 
you  what  it  means  to  me — the  picture — your  giving 
yourself — giving  me  the  joy  of  it!"  He  took  her  hand, 
and,  kneeling  beside  the  couch,  put  it  to  his  lips  and 
held  it  there.  "I  love  you,"  he  said,  "I  love  you,  love 
you,  love  you,  and  I've  longed  to  say  it  every  day  you've 
come.  Don't  say  anything!  Don't  answer!  I  know 
all  the  things  you  ought  to  say,  but  just  for  a  moment, 
let  me  touch  you,  let  me  find  rest ;  I  am  weary,  too. ' ' 

His  head  was  on  the  couch  beside  her,  her  fingers 
against  his  lips.  It  was  infinitely  sweet  to  have  him 
there,  to  feel  his  groping  touch — tender,  beseeching. 

After  a  time,  neither  knew  how  long,  Medway  raised 
his  head.  "You  haven't  said  all  the  dreadful  things 
I  was  afraid  you  Would  say.  You  don't  mind  my  lov- 
ing you — you're  glad?"    His  hands  tightened. 

"I  think  I  don't  understand."  Eileen  was  trembling. 
"Hadn't  you  better  go  back  to  your  painting?  I'm 
rested  now;  I  can  pose  again." 

"I  will,"  Medway 's  voice  was  gentle.  "I'll  do  any- 
think  you  say  and  please  know  this,  I  am  not  asking  any- 
thing of  you.  I'll  promise  not  to.  Just  let  me  love 
you;  be  good  to  me!    I  am  so  happy." 

She  rose  quickly,  her  thoughts  in  a  tumult.  "Yes, 
yes,"  she  said,  "please  go  on  painting  now." 

She  took  her  pose,  that  strange  pose  that  seemed  to 
typify  all  the  languor  of  the  East.  Medway  picked 
up  his  palette,  but  he  painted  little.  His  eyes  rested 
with  a  shining  light,  now  on  his  picture,  now  on  the 
woman  it  portrayed.    When  he  took  her  hand  at  part- 

300 


DRIFT? 

ing,  his  clasp  belied  his  words,  "I  will  ask  nothing  of 
you."    His  touch  asked  everything. 

The  next  day  Eileen  sent  word  that  she  could  not 
come  and  passed  a  restless  morning.  The  next  day  it 
was  the  same.  In  the  evening  came  a  note  from  Med- 
way,  "Please  come!"  it  ran,  "I  want  you;  I  can  do 
frothing  without  you.  I  will  be  good.  I  long  to  know 
if  you  are  happy — too — as  happy  as  I.  I  think  that  you 
are.    Come!" 

The  next  morning  she  went,  trembling.  Medway 
looked  at  Sophie  and  then  sharply  at  her,  and  became 
formality  itself.  He  painted  quietly  and  steadily^giv- 
ing  her  a  word  now  and  then  as  to  the  pose,  and  hum- 
ming lightly  to  himself.  Eileen  was  miserable.  She 
posed  a  long  time  without  resting  and  grew  wretched 
from  fatigue.  Medway  was  polite  and  suggested  that 
they  end  the  sitting.  So  this  was  what  he  called  "being 
good."    How  dreary  it  was! 

The  next  day,  setting  her  lips  a  little,  Eileen  told 
Sophie  that  she  would  dress  at  home,  that  she  need  not 
go  with  her  to  the  studio.  Sophie  looked  up.  "Yes, 
madam,"  she  said. 

The  French  woman  had  watched  what  had  come  to  be 
as  she  sat  at  her  sewing ;  she  had  watched  Medway,  and 
she  was  afraid.  She  had  been  with  Eileen  since  she  was 
/a  little  girl  and  all  a  lonely  woman's  affection  went  out 
to  the  delicate,  careless  young  creature  she  earned  for. 
Now  she  had  a  fierce  desire  to  protect  her:  shield  her 
from}  ill.  Something  of  this  was  conveyed  to  Eileen  in 
the  touch  of  her  hands,  and  the  sense  of  constraint  in 
the  woman's  watchfulness  acted  as  a  spur  to  that  im- 
patience which  was  pushing  her  forward  to  something 
that  she  knew  was  fateful.  Sophie 's  stern  look  was  dis- 
turbing.   Her  arms  stole  around  the  woman's  neck  and 

she  pulled  her  face  down.     "Old  silly!"  she  said, 

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DRIFT 

" don't  you  go  imagining  things  and  fretting;  it's  all 
right.' ' 

Sophie  dropped  down  beside  her.  "Oh,  Miss  Eileen," 
she  said, l '  can 't  I  go  ?    I  'd  better  go !    Let  me,  please ! ' ' 

Eileen  pushed  her  away  and  rose.  "No!  I  said  no, 
didn't  It" 

Medway  glanced  behind  her  as  she  entered  the  studio, 
but  he  said  nothing.  He  took  her  cloak  from  her  gently 
and  turned  and  faced  her — this  eyes  gleaming.  Eileen 
stood  before  him,  slender,  brown,  her  eyes  bent  down, 
one  hand  on  her  breast  to  still  the  beating — the  young 
queen — Cleopatra.  He  looked  at  her  and  suddenly  she 
was  in  his  arms,  his  kisses  were  on  her  throat,  her  hair, 
ner  breast.  "You  came!"  the  whisper  was  a  shout  of 
triumph.  "You  came!  You  are  mine,  mine,  mine! 
Tell  me,  when  shall  it  be?  When  will  you  come  to  me? 
Tell  me — I  want  you.  My  God,  how  I  want  you!  I 
want  you  now!" 

Eileen  struggled  in  mad  terror.  Oh  that  grasp,  that 
terrible  grasp !  He  must  let  her  go ;  she  seemed  power- 
less— he  was  so  strong.  "Tell  me,  tell  me !"  he  insisted. 
"When — when  will  you  come?" 

Victoria's  vow  flashed  across  her  brain.  With  a  cry 
she  forced  herself  and  stood  before  him,  quivering,  pant- 
ing like  a  mad  thing-^-caught. 

Medway  fell  back.  "What  is  it?"  he  said.  "Why 
do  you  look  like  that?    I've  hurt  you?" 

"No,  no!  It  isn't  that."  Eileen's  voice  was  hoarse. 
He  came  a  step  nearer  and  she  cowered  back.  "Don't 
'touch  me!"    She  almost  screamed  the  words. 

"I  won't."  Medway  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead, 
"but  I  thought  you — you  came  alone;  the  other  day 
you  seemed — what  is  it?    Oh,  what  is  it?" 

Eileen  sank  down  upon  the  couch;  she  felt  sick  and 
dizzy,  as  if  this  were  some  horrible  dream  from  which 

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DEIFT 

she  must  waken  in  a  moment.  Medway  walked  to  the 
other  end  of  the  studio,  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
came  back  and  stood  in  front  of  her.  A  curious  thought 
came  to  him  as  he  looked  at  her  bent  head,  her  broken 
attitude — Cleopatra  before  Caesar —  So !  he  might  paint 
her  again! 

He  gave  a  short  laugh  and  Eileen  looked  up;  there 
was  terror  in  her  eyes.  "I  want  to  go  away,"  she  said, 
"go  away  from  here." 

Medway  stepped  to  the  door.  "You  are  free  to  go," 
he  said. 

"But  the  picture?"  Eileen  faltered.  "Whatever  hap- 
pens to  us — I  mean,  whatever  we  do — that — mustn't 
suffer — I  want  that  to  be  finished — I'll  do  anything." 
She  was  crying. 

Medway 's  anger  softened.  He  could  understand  this, 
at  least.  I  have  hardly  painted  on  it  for  a  week,"  he 
said.  "It  is  practically  finished.  I  kept  you  because— 
well — because  I  couldn't  let  you  go,  I  suppose.  I 
thought —  Fool!  Fool!  Fool!"  Again  he  gave  that 
short,  ugly  laugh ;  then  he  walked  to  his  easel  and  stood 
looking  at  the  picture.    "It  is  goodx"  he  said. 

There  was  a  silence.  "Well,  you  are  free  to  go." 
His  face  was  white  and  his  voice  dull.  "What  hinders 
you?" 

"The  car?"  Eileen  tasted  the  dregs. 

"Oh!"  Medway  rang  and  gave  the  necessary  direc- 
tions; again  there  was  silence.  Eileen  longed  to  speak, 
but  she  could  not.  She  was  not  afraid  now;  she  knew 
that  he  would  not  touch  her  against  her  will,  but  that 
look  on  his  face !  She  did  not  know  that  he  could  look 
like  that. 

In  a  moment  the  car  was  announced.  Gravely  he  held 
her  cloak  and  bowed  his  head  as  she  passed  out  of  the 
door  and  down  the  stairs. 

The  picture,  "The  Brown  Queen,"  was  exhibited  at 

303 


DEIPT 

the  spring  exhibition  and  excited  the  wonder  and  ad- 
miration of  a  bewildered  world. 

"Old  Medway 's  gone  ahead  of  us  all,"  said  one  fel- 
low-artist, "we  might  as  well  acknowledge  it." 

"We'll  see  the  influence  of  that  picture  during  the 
next  year,"  said  another,  going  back  to  his  absorbed 
study  of  the  wonder  of  colour  that  proved  an  enchant- 
ment to  painters  and  laymen  alike. 

The  figure — eager,  expectant,  languidly  on  fire,  was 
bathed  in  a  golden  glory  of  sunset  light.  It  shone  and 
radiated  and  gleamed  with  light — the  light  of  the  East, 
the  comments.  Crockett  was  not  without  bowels  of 
queen. 

"He  has  given  her  a  soul,"  some  one  said,  and  when 
the  question  came,  "Who?  Eileen  or  Cleopatra?"  there- 
was  only  a  smile  for  an  answer.  Were  there  those  who 
guessed  something  of  the  cause  of  the  surpassing  beauty 
of  the  picture?  If  so  they  held  their  peace.  Enough 
that  it  was. 

Spencer  Crockett  came  each  day  to  worship  and  hear 
the  comments.  Crockett  was  not  without  bowels  of 
compassion.  He  was  sorry  for  Jane,  very  sorry;  as 
for  Medway,  his  hurt  would  mend,  he  would  go  through 
hell,  of  course — but — he  had  the  picture.  It  was  hardly 
to  be  expected  that  Jane  would  find  that  much  of  a  con- 
solation. Crockett  wondered  about  Jane.  Keenly  am- 
bitious as  she  was  for  Medway's  work,  was  her  ambition 
impersonal  enough  to  brook  episodes  like  this — inevi- 
table episodes?  It  seemed  to  Crockett  that  he  and  Jane 
alone  knew  the  secret  of  "The  Brown  Queen,"  better 
even  than  the  two  who  had  created  it.  He  knew  that 
Jane  hated  him.    He  was  sorry  for  that. 

Medway  harlly  went  near  the  exhibition.  He  spent 
most  of  the  time  in  his  studio,  although  he  painted  little. 
He  wrote  letters  to  Eileen,  some  pleading,  some  bitter. 
Then  he  would  read  them  and  furiously  destroy  them, 

304 


DRIFT 

getting  up  to  wander  about  the  room  where  her  presence 
lingered.  One  day,  in  default  of  the  picture,  he  hunted 
up  the  sketches  and  studies,  and  pored  over  them,  turn- 
ing away  with  a  groan.  Desire  gnawed  and  tore  at 
him — to  seek  her  out,  to  make  her  yield,  to  force  that 
lithe,  beautiful  body  to  turn  to  him.  He  knew  that  he 
could,  but  something  held  him  back.  He  had  been  too 
deeply  repulsed;  he  could  not  forget  her  fury  of  recoil. 
He  *  believed  that  she  would  answer  his  passion  with 
equal  strength;  why  was  it  not  there? 

Early  one  morning,  before  any  one  could  be  there,  he 
went  to  the  exhibition  rooms  and  studied  the  picture. 
Yes,  it  was  on  the  canvas ;  had  he  painted  only  what  he 
believed  to  be,  not  what  was?  He  would  not  believe  it; 
he  had  made  some  misstep,  had  been  too  impatient;  he 
should  not  have  frightened  her  and  so  lost  everything. 
Fool,  fool  that  he  had  been ! 

The  days  came  and  went,  and  Medway  did  not  know 
how  they  passed.  He  was  very  wretched.  Jane  min- 
istered to  him  as  she  could  and  hid  her  thoughts  from 
him  and  from  every  one. 

When  the  exhibition  was  over,  there  came  a  request 
for  the  picture  to  be  sent  to  a  neighbouring  city.  Medway 
answered  the  letter  curtly,  saying  that  it  must  be  re- 
turned to  him,  an  edict  which  caused  concern  and  re- 
'gret  to  the  authorities.  An  emissary  was  sent  to  remon- 
strate and  received  short  shrift.  "Tell  them  to  send 
the  picture  here,"  he  said. 

He  could  not  have  told  why  he  wanted  it,  for  he  knew 
it  would  mean  only  more  intense  torment  of  longing. 
Nevertheless,  it  represented  to  him  hours  of  such  happi- 
ness, such  passion  of  creative  joy,  that  the  very  canvas 
was  to  him  infinitely  precious.  He  wanted  his  treasure 
returned.  When  it  came  he  sat  long  before  it.  He 
had  put  into  it  a  great  passion,  a  gr^at  desire — unful- 
filled. 

305 


DRIFT 

It  was  some  months  later  when  one  day,  late  in  the 
afternoon,  Medway  came  to  his  wife's  room  and 
knocked.  She  was  sitting  sewing  by  the  .window.  Jane 
Medway  looked  up  with  a  little  smile  and  held  out  her 
arms.  Medway  threw  himself  on  the  floor  at  her  feet, 
putting  his  face  down  on  her  knees.  His  words  were 
inarticulate.  Jane  pushed  the  hair  back  from  his  fore- 
head. 

" Don't  talk,  dear,"  she  said.  " Don't  feel  you  must 
tell  me  anything.  I  understand  it  all,  understand  it  so 
well!  You  are  suffering  and  my  heart  aches  for  you. 
Perhaps  I  can  help ;  I  'd  like  to. ' ' 

Medway  found  her  hands.  "Is  it  true f  Is  it  true ! ' ' 
he  said.  As  the  minutes  passed  over  those  two  sitting 
together  in  their  room,  where  there  had  been  great  joy, 
there  came  a  silence,  a  healing  silence.  The  man  rested 
prostrate,  the  woman  bent  over  him.  It  was  blessed  to 
her  to  touch  that  rough  head  again.  The  room  grew 
darker  and  the  lights  of  the  city  shone  in — the  lights  of 
the  great  city — as  they  shone  into  many  windows  where 
many  other  human  beings  were  enacting  in  their  turn 
the  old  story  of  love  and  pain  and  infinite  desire. 

After  a  while  the  child  Laura  came  to  the  door.  "I 
want  to  come  in ! "  she  called.  Medway  opened  the  door 
and  picked  her  up,  holding  her  to  him.  In  a  moment 
Jane  stole  away  and  left  them  together. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards,  Laura  came  to  the  studio 
door,  grave  of  mien.  "I  have  a  letter  for  you  from 
Mother,"  she  said.  "It  is  very  im — important.  She  said 
I  must  give  it  to  you  myself,  not  let  anybody  else. 
Here  it  is." 

She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him  and  waited.  "My  dear, 
dear  husband,"  it  ran.  "This  week  is  the  boys'  Easter 
vacation  and  they  are  dreadfully  restive  in  the  city, 
so  they  and  I  are  off  for  a  week  of  green  fields.  I've 
explained  everything  to  Nannie  about  Laura,  but  don't 

306 


DRIFT 

let  my  blessed  baby  get  lonesome  for  mother,  will  you? 
We'll  be  back  a  week  from  today.  I'll  wire,  of  course. 
Love,  Jane." 

Medway  sat  down,  the  note  in  his  hand.  Laura 
climbed  into  his  lap.  "Father,"  she  whispered, 
"Mother  told  me  to  comfort  you.  Why  did  she  tell 
me  that?    Shall  I  sing  to  you?" 

During  that  week  Medway  painted  a  picture,  Out  of 
a  mist  shines  a  face,  a  child's  face  with  eyes  that  see 
beyond.    The  picture  is  called  "The  Comforter." 

In  the  autumn  Crockett  had  a  brief  line  from  Medway 
saying  that  he  and  Jane  with  the  child  Laura  were  sail- 
ing for  Paris,  where  he  had  taken  a  studio.  The  boys 
were  at  school.  The  New  York  apartment  was  let  for 
two  years.  Would  Crockett  please  explain  to  the  club 
committee  that  he  would  work  on  the  decorations  as 
he  was  able  to?  He  would  hope  to  finish  them  in  the 
course  of  six  months  or  a  year. 

Spencer  Crockett  was  a  deeply  dissatisfied  man.  He 
had  done  that  which  was  distasteful  to  him  in  a  desire 
that  beauty  should  be  born.  Well  it  had  been,  but  what 
good  did  it  do  him?  He  could  not  see  it,  did  not  even 
know  where  it  was.  Eileen  had  made  no  comment  when 
he  went  to  see  her  for  the  express  purpose  of  telling  her 
of  Medway 's  note,  but  he  remembered  her  expression. 
Had  she  been  hurt,  too  ?  He  reflected  that  her  face  had 
something  it  had  lacked  before.  Had  Medway  played 
Pygmalion?    He  wondered  what  had  happened. 

Worst  of  all,  one  side  of  the  club  lounge,  otherwise 
complete,  was  calcimined  a  patient  drab,  waiting  for  the 
decorations  which  he,  Crockett,  had  so  warmly  advo- 
cated. He  was  obliged  to  listen  daily  to  crass  opin- 
ions and  inane  jokes  about  the  four  panels  already  in- 
stalled. 

There  were  times  when   Spencer  Crockett    thought 

307 


DRIFT 

"The  Brown  Queen"  had  cost  too  dear.  Moreover,  he 
was  uneasy  as  to  the  fate  of  the  picture.  Would  he  ever 
see  it  again?    Would  anybody  ? 

He  need  not  have  been  concerned.  Medway  would  no 
more  have  let  harm  come  to  it  than  to  Laura,  nor  would 
he  part  with  it,  in  spite  of  extravagant  offers.  When  it 
was  painted  Crockett  had  had  the  temerity  to  suggest 
the  Metropolitan,  to  which  Medway  had  replied, 
"When  I'm  dead  perhaps,  not  before."  It  hung  now 
in  his  Paris  studio.    He  stood  before  it  daily. 

In  the  sober  watches  of  the  dawn,  Crockett  decided 
that  henceforth  he  would  confine  himself  to  pictures 
already  painted. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

EILEEN  could  never  remember  definitely  what  hap- 
pened during  the  weeks  after  the  scene  in  the  studio. 
She  went  about  as  usual,  got  up  in  the  morning,  dressed, 
went  out  and  talked;  returning,  she  went  to  bed  and 
got  up  again  the  next  day,  all  as  she  had  done. 

One  day  she  met  Victoria  Lenowska  on  the  street. 
The  two  stared  at  each  other  and  Victoria  would  have 
passed  on,  but  Eileen  would  not  let  her.  She  held  out 
her  hand. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,"  she  said,  "I'd  like  to 
know  how  you  are.  Won't  you  come  in  here  and  talk 
to  me?" 

Victoria  assented  with  a  queer  smile  and  Eileen  led 
the  way  to  a  near-by  tea-room.  They  had  the  place 
almost  to  themselves,  and  Victoria  seated  herself  with 
an  air  of  assurance  and  picked  up  the  card.  Eileen 
wondered  why  she  had  invited  her  and  for  a  moment 
there  was  silence.    Victoria  broke  it. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  wanted  me  to  come,"  she  said. 
"I  suppose  you  wanted  to  find  out  whether  I  did  or  I 
didn't—well,  I  didn't." 

"No,  that  wasn't  it  at  all,"  said  Eileen.  "I  was  very 
lonely.  I  wanted  somebody  to  talk  to."  The  answer 
was  the  truth,  but  it  had  a  peculiar  effect  upon  Victoria. 

'  'Is  that  so?"  she  said.  "Is  that  so?"  and  fell  to 
fiddling  with  her  teacup. 

309 


DRIFT 

"Yes,  it  is  so,"  said  Eileen,  "but  it  doesn't  matter 
especially.  Won't  you  tell  me  what  has  happened  to 
you  in  the  years  since  we  met?  Mr.  Martin  said  you'd 
1  fight  your  way  through.'  " 

"Did  he  say  that?  Did  he?"  Victoria  looked  ex- 
cited. "That's  something  to  hear  after  all  this  time. 
I'm  glad  you  told  me  that." 

"Well,  haven't  you?"  Eileen's  voice  was  winning  its 
way.    "You  look  as  if  you  had." 

"I'm  straight,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  I  didn't  go 
on  the  streets,  'though  I  couldn't  tell  you  for  the  life 
of  me  why  not.  I  guess  I  was  just  afraid — after  that 
one  dose  of  man  I  got,  young!  It  was  enough  to  cure 
me — of  wantin'  'em — I  mean." 

Eileen  reflected  that  Victoria's  genius  for  direct 
speech  remained  with  her.  She  rather  wished  that  she 
had  resisted  the  inclination  to  invite  her,  but  the  memory 
that  Victoria  had  declined  a  visit  from  her  at  the  hos- 
pital had  never  been  effaced. 

' '  Did  you  ever  see  your  stepfather  again  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"Never — nor  my  mother  either!  I  wanted  to  show 
'em  I  could  get  along  without  'em — that  I  wasn't  done. 
I  dare  say  that  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  way  I  worked. 
I'm  forewoman  in  a  box  factory  now.  It  wasn't  easy, 
but  I'm  gettin'  there.  You  know,  it's  sort  of  interesting 
teeein'  what  you  can  do — bracin'  yourself  against  all 
the  things  and  all  the  awful  people  that's  tryin'  to 
down  you — workin'  against  you.  It's  like  a  game — 
seein'  who'll  come  out  on  top — you  or  the  other  fellow. 
Well,  I  must  be  goin'  now.     Thank  you  for  the  tea." 

She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand  awkwardly.  "I'm 
sorry  you're  lonesome,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  don't  go  yet,"  Eileen  begged,  "I  want  to  hear 
more.  It  sounds  so  worth  while,  so  splendid,  what 
you're  doing,  I  mean.  It  makes  my  life  seem  idle  and 
foolish.    I'd  like  to  do  things — people  that  are  working 

310 


DRIFT 

as  you  do  are  happy,  aren't  they?  I'd  like  to  earn 
my  living,  but  how  can  I?"    She  spread  out  her  hands. 

Victoria  looked  her  up  and  down  and  grinned.  "You 
couldn't,"  she  admitted,  "and  I  guess  you  wouldn't 
want  to  long.  You'd  crumple  up  and  take  to  the  other 
thing — you're  pretty  enough  to,  and  soft  enough — at 
least  to  look  at.    What  makes  you  lonesome ! ' ' 

"Because  I'm  alone." 

"Well,  you  don't  have  to  be  alone,  do  you?  Are  you 
married  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"What's  he  doing?" 

1 '  You  mean  his  business  ? ' ' 

"No,  no!"  Victoria  laughed.  "What's  he  doin'  with 
women,  I  mean,  leaves  you  lonesome?  What  you  done 
to  him— first?" 

"Why  first?"  Eileen's  voice  trembled. 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  I've  no  business  to  ask,  but 
you  volunteered  you  was  lonesome,  you  know.  If  you 
want  a  man,  for  heaven's  sake  get  one,  but  don't  go 
'round  tellin'  everybody  you  meet  on  the  street  you're 
'lonesome.'  That's  so  darned  silly!"  She  looked  at 
her  watch.  "I've  got  to  go  now,  I'm  late.  Excuse  me 
if  I  've  been  rude.  Thank  you  again  for  the  tea — it  was 
good.     Good-bye." 

Eileen  went  with  her  to  the  door  of  the  restaurant 
and  stood  a  moment  watching  her  stride  down  the  street. 
The  interview  had  been  extraordinarily  distasteful,  yet 
curiously  she  wished  Victoria  would  not  go  away.  So! 
it  was  'darned  silly'  to  be  lonesome!  She  wondered 
what  was  the  impulse  that  had  led  her  to  make  the  con- 
fession to  a  woman. 

In  a  moment  Victoria  came  hurrying  back,  holding 
out  her  hand.  ' '  Say ! ' '  she  said,  ' '  I  forgot  something — 
always  do  forget  'em,  I  guess — manners.  I  want  to  say 
thank  you  for  your  going  with  me  to  the  hospital  that 

311 


DRIFT 

time.  It  must  'a  been  horrid  for  you.  Don't  suppose 
I  remembered  to  say  the  proper  things,  don't  remember 
much  of  anything  except  a  feeling  I'd  never  do  tltat 
again— an'  I  haven't!  Don't  suppose  I'll  ever  see  you 
again;  I  was  so  afraid  you'd  be  gone." 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  come  back,"  said  Eileen,  "but 
why  shouldn't  we  meet  again?    I'd  like  to." 

Victoria  grinned  sideways.  "Oh,  well,"  she  said,  "it 
wouldn't  be  worth  while,  would  it?  I'd  forget  my  man- 
ners every  time,  sure,  and  I  guess  manners  are  your 
strong  suit.  Good-bye.  Don't  be  lonesome,  but  if  you 
are,  don't  talk  about  it." 

In  the  early  spring  Eileen  told  John  she  was  very 
tired  and  wanted  quiet.  She  would  go  to  the  Farm  for- 
a  while ;  there  were  many  things  needing  supervision. 

The  round  of  spring  entertainments  had  become  intol- 
erable. She  thought  constantly  of  Victoria's  words. 
How  dare  the  woman  come  into  her  life  again  with  her 
sneers  about  being  lonesome,  when  it  was  she,  yes,  she 
and  no  other,  who  had  caused  her  to  be  lonely.  She 
wished  that  she  knew  where  she  lived  so  that  she  might 
go  and  tell  her  this.  Why  had  she  been  such  a  fool  as 
to  let  Victoria  say  all  those  things,  saying  no  word  her- 
self of  all  the  misery  her  wild  "vow"  had  caused.  "If 
you  want  a  man,  get  one."  The  brutal  phrase  stayed 
in  her  mind.  She  wondered  what  had  happened  to 
Robert  Thorne. 

Eileen  spent  most  of  the  summer  at  the  Farm. 
John  came  up  occasionally  for  Sunday,  and  as  before, 
when  she  was  troubled,  she  turned  to  him,  relying  upon 
his  care.  They  took  long  walks  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
sometimes  talking  over  the  past.  They  had  become 
friends,  concerned  for  each  other's  welfare,  thoughtful, 
considerate;  but  with  the  limits  and  barriers  that 
friends  interpose. 

512 


DRIFT 

At  midsummer  Mrs.  Templeton  died.  For  some  weeks 
John  had  been  concerned  about  her  failing  strength,  but 
the  last  illness  was  short.  Eileen  came  into  town  and 
tried  to  be  of  use,  but  there  seemed  nothing  for  her  to 
do.  Julia  Templeton,  in  her  grief,  wanted  John's  at- 
tention.   Eileen  hardly  saw  him. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  of  the  funeral,  she  tried  to 
tell  him  that  she  understood  his  pain — that  she  longed 
to  be  of  some  comfort,  some  use.  He  thanked  her  almost 
sternly.  It  was  as  if  he  did  not  want  her  to  speak  in 
that  way.  "It  is  much  to  have  in  one's  memory,  a  life 
like  that,"  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

It  was  some  weeks  after  that  he  came  to  the  Farm 
and  then  could  stay  only  one  night.  He  told  her  that 
his  mother  had  left  a  letter  for  him,  marked  to  be  opened 
after  her  death.  Sometime  he  wanted  to  read  it  to  her, 
to  talk  with  her  about  it.  Eileen  saw  that  he  had  dif- 
ficulty in  speaking  and  asked  no  questions,  wishing  him 
to  choose  his  own  time. 

He  went  back  to  town  by  the  early  train  and  after 
he  had  gone,  she  was  given  a  note.  "Dear  Eileen/ •  it 
read,  "I  wish  that  my  visit  could  have  given  you  some 
comfort.  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  too  troubled  to  be 
companionable.  I  wish  that  I  could  help  you.  You  are 
too  much  alone.  Why  not  ask  Mrs.  Ainsboro  for  a  visit 
with  the  children  ?  They  would  play  about  out  of  doors 
and  you  would  enjoy  her  company.  I  will  come  up 
again  shortly,  John.,, 

In  the  midst  of  his  own  grief  he  was  trying  to  plan 
for  her!  The  tears  came  as  she  read.  Why,  she 
wondered,  had  the  few  hours  they  had  spent  together 
been  so  full  of  constraint,  of  unreality  ?  She  wished  that 
he  would  come  oftener.  The  next  time  that  he  came 
she  would  try  to  express  how  deeply  she  appreciated  his 
care  and  thought  for  her. 

She  had  already  asked  Clara  to  stay  with  her  in  the 

313 


DRIFT 

spring,  but  that  much  occupied  person  had  laughed 
her  regrets.  "Can  you  imagine  Tommy  with  no  ma- 
ternal hand  over  him?"  she  asked.  Eileen  had  sug- 
gested the  boys  might  come  too,  but  it  appeared  that 
school  was  not  to  be  interfered  with.  She  telegraphed 
now:  "It  must  be  vacation,  so  please,  please  come  and 
make  me  a  visit  for  as  long  as  you  will  stay.  I  want 
you  terribly.  Of  course  I  mean  all  of  you.  Don't  say 
no.    I  am  very  lonely.' ' 

Clara's  answer  came  promptly.  "Do  you  know  what 
you  are  doing?  There's  Tommy  and  Philip  and  Toddles 
and  Katie  and  me  and  Frank  on  Sundays — that  makes 
a  hundred.  However,  we  are  coming.  Children  wildly 
excited. ' ' 

Eileen  was  excited,  too.  She  took  a  trip  to  town 
and  spent  two  days  equipping  the  guest  rooms  with 
small-sized  furniture.  The  coachman  was  to  look  out 
for  a  pony  and  wagon,  and,  if  possible,  secure  a  donkey. 

The  last  statement  of  Clara's  telegram  proved  true. 
A  hundred  small  boys  tumbled  out  of  the  motor,  made 
deep  and  hasty  obeisances  and  rushed  off — the  young- 
est, Toddles,  squealing,  "Wait  for  me!    Wait  for  me!" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

EILEEN  made  pronouncement  that  no  restrictions 
were  to  be  imposed;  the  place,  with  all  that  was 
therein,  belonged  to  the  boys.  Clara  was  aghast.  "But 
what  will  happen  when  we  get  home?"  she  said.  "I 
wired  that  you  didn't  know  what  you  were  doing  and 
you  certainly  don't!" 

Toddles  looked  bewildered  but  pleased;  Tommy  had 
to  be  assured  about  such  a  riotous  prospect.  "Do  you 
mean  we  can  play  anything,  anywhere?"  he  asked, 
"and  never  have  to  tidy  up!  I  never  was  in  any 
place  like  that  before.  Say,  Phil!"  Tommy's  voice 
was  piercing ;  ! '  come  on  downstairs  quick !  She  says  we 
never  need  to  tidy  up.     Come  on  and  play  train!" 

Shortly  a  train  made  of  chairs  and  cushions  and 
overturned  sofas  obstructed  the  hall  and  wound  its  way 
out  onto  the  piazza.  "We  never  had  such  a  large  one," 
observed  the  Chief  Engineer.  "Can  it  really  stay 
there  all  night  and  tomorrow?"  He  gave  his  nose  a 
prodigious  wipe  with  his  sleeve  as  he  spoke,  bringing  the 
maternal,  "Oh  Tommy!" 

"Well,  engineers  always  do  that!  I  seen  'em,"  said 
Tommy. 

"Saw  them,  not  'seen  'em/  "  came  the  maternal 
voice. 

By  tomorrow  the  three  were  down  at  the  farm-house 

315 


DEIFT 

while  the  butler  picked  his  way  around  th.e  train  with 
a  worried  air.  Just  before  lunch  he  respectfully  asked 
permission  to  replace  the  furniture. 

"Ask  Master  Tommy/ '  said  Eileen. 

Master  Tommy  was  at  the  moment  engaged  in  mak- 
ing a  pen  for  the  lamb  in  a  convenient  angle  formed  by 
the  porch  and  the  front  step.  He  accorded  permission 
readily.    "I  don't  want  the  old  train,' '  he  said. 

The  lamb  was  soon  installed  in  its  new  quarters,  and 
bleated  mournfully  at  short  intervals.  Tommy  was  con- 
vinced that  he  could  teach  the  lamb  tricks  if  it  would 
only  "get  acquainted."  To  that  end,  he  pursued  his 
occupations  on  the  front  steps,  cultivating  the  lamb's 
confidence  by  occasional  endearing  words,  and  leaving  a 
trail  of  disorder  behind  him.  He  had  an  ambition  to 
teach  the  lamb  to  shake  hands  before  Sunday.  He  was 
sure  it  would  please  his  father  to  be  so  greeted. 

As  on  the  evening  after  the  bazaar,  Eileen  watched 
the  children  with  curious  eyes — wondering,  questioning 
She  was  witness  to  many  attractive  scenes,  and  several 
turbulent  ones.  She  watched  Clara's  management  of 
her  vigourous  brood  with  admiration  for  her  ability  to 
respond  to  their  varied  and  unusual  demands.  As  Sat- 
urday drew  near,  she  saw  the  children's  excited  prepa- 
rations for  their  father's  coming. 

It  was  clear  that  Tommy  had  very  special  plans 
on  hand  in  which  Ainsboro  was  concerned.  They  had 
to  do  with  a  pile  of  planks,  lying  in  the  stable  yard, 
about  which  he  had  made  inquiries  of  Eileen,  finally 
asking  if  they  might  be  given  to  him. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "what  for?" 

"Oh,  I  dunnp,"  said  Tommy,  "might  be  handy  some 
time,  you  never  can  tell."  The  next  day  he  added  to 
the  pile  of  planks  a  barrel,  a  discarded  saw-horse,  and  a 
collection  of  nails  and  was  heard  to  enquire  of  Philip 
if  he  had  ever  seen  a  pirates'  raft. 

316 


DEIFT 

"No,"  said  Philip,  "where  is  one?" 

"Well,"  said  Tommy,  "there  might  be  one  some- 
where, of  course." 

That  night  Clara  asked  Eileen  if  the  lake  was  very 
deep. 

1 '  It  certainly  is, ' '  said  Eileen.    ( l  Why  \  ' ' 

"Well,  Tommy  is  meditating  something,"  said  Clara. 
"He's  read  three  pirate  stories  and  asked  for  his  "Rob- 
inson Crusoe."  He  can  swim  of  course,  but  I  think  I 
must  make  some  regulations  about  the  lake." 

"I  gave  him  some  planks,"  Eileen  remarked. 

' '  Oh,  did  you  ? ' '  Light  broke  over  Clara 's  face, ' '  then 
that's  it.  I  sometimes  wish  he  didn't  put  his  literature 
so  instantly  into  practice.  I  read  him  'Excelsior'  a  lit- 
tle while  ago,  and  he  was  lost  all  the  next  day.  I  was 
in  town,  but  poor  Katie  was  nearly  distracted.  When 
she  found  him,  he  had  the  cover  of  a  pasteboard  dress- 
box  tied  onto  his  chest,  and  two  more  pieces  on  his  legs, 
that  he  said  were  'greaves.'  He  had  a  long  stick  in  his 
hand,  and  was  sitting  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  gazing  at  the 
sky.  He  was  dreadfully  annoyed  at  being  fetched  home, 
and  said  he  supposed  there  was  no  use  trying  to  explain. 
'I  was  that  scared,'  said  Katie,  'I  couldn't  think  straight, 
fcut  I  had  to  laugh  when  I  seen  him  sittin'  there,  in 
his  pasteboard  box,  a  gazin'  upwards.'  Well,  I'm  glad 
Frank's  coming  tomorrow.  I'll  ask  him  about  the 
lake." 

On  Saturday  Tommy  enquired  of  Clara  exactly  when 
his  father  was  due. 

"Not  till  three  or  after,"  said  Clara.    "Why?" 

"And  what's  going  to  happen  then?"  Tommy  per- 
sisted. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  said  Clara.  She  was  reading 
at  the  moment  and  generally  could  reply  to  ordinary 
requests  without  stopping,  but  now  she  put  down  her 
book. 

317 


DRIFT 

"Perhaps  he'd  like  to  go  for  a  walk,  she  said,  "would 
you  like  to  come?" 

Tommy  considered.  "  'Things  must  be  shared  to  be 
fair/  "  he  remarked  after  a  pause,  "  'and  we  mustn't 
any  of  us  be  selfish.  ' ' 

"I  recognise  the  observation, ' '  said  Clara,  "go  on." 

"Well,  you  know,  you've  got  Father  all  the  time  after 
we  go  to  bed,"  said  Tommy. 

"Oh!"  Clara  gave  him  a  hug.  "You  funny  duck! 
Why  didn't, you  say  right  out  you  wanted  Father  your- 
self !  I  've  got  heaps  to  do  this  afternoon ;  you  children 
can  take  possession. ' ' 

Tommy  still  looked  grave.  "Thank  you,"  he  said, 
and  went  and  sat  down  alone  in  the  garden.  His  plans 
required  thought. 

Shortly  before  three  o'clock  he  sought  young  Philip, 
and  haled  him  from  an  apple-tree.  "Say,  Phil,"  he 
called,  "how'd  you  like  my  new  horse,  the  one  that's 
got  its  ear  broken  just  a  teeny  bit,  and  the  wagon  f ' ' 

"Do  you  mean  to  play  with?"  said  Philip,  peering 
out. 

"No!"  said  Tommy,  "for  keeps." 

"Oh  Jimmy!"  said  Philip,  scrambling  downwards. 
"Where  is  it?"  He  landed  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  in  a 
heap  with  expectant  eyes. 

"Under  my  bed,"  said  Tommy,  "with  a  towel  'round 
it.  And  there's  a  lovely  smooth  place  to  run  it  on  down 
by  the  stable,"  he  yelled,  as  Philip  hopped  away,  some- 
what crookedly  owing  to  pulling  up  his  stocking  as  he 
went. 

Toddles  was  found  idly  gambolling  with  the  lamb  near 
the  front  door,  a  very  dangerous  situation.  He  would 
certainly  descend  with  whoops  on  a  playfellow. 

"Say,  Toddles!"  Tommy's  tone  was  that  of  one  con- 
fiding secret  things.  "Down  in  the  meadow  lot  there's 
heaps  of  black-eyed  Susans.    I  seen  'em,  I  mean  I  saw 

318 


DEIPT 

them.  Katie  knows  where  they  are,  don't  you,  Katie?  It's 
no  end  of  fun  pulling  the  heads  off  'em,  I  mean  them. 
They  make  a  kind  of  squeak. ' '  Tommy  gave  a  porten- 
tous wink  at  Katie,  who  grinned,  as  Toddles,  poor  in- 
nocent, took  the  bait  whole. 

"Come  on!"  Toddles  said,  seizing  his  Katie,  " where 's 
Susans?    Come  on  quick!" 

Tommy  watched  them  depart,  on  his  face  a  smile  of 
things  accomplished.  Then  he  turned  to  his  mother  and 
Eileen  upon  the  porch.  "They  do  bother,  around,  you 
know,  when  there's  anything  important  to  be  done. 
May  I  go  down  the  road  and  meet  Father?  It's  two 
minutes  of  three." 

"Yes,  but  come  here  a  minute  first,"  said  Clara, 
1 '  your  knee  looks  so  queer !    Is  that  a  bruise  ? ' ' 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Tommy,  balancing  on  one  leg  to 
examine  himself.  "I  inked  it  once,  but  the  hole  must  'a 
got  bigger  since!  Do  I  have  to  'go  and  change,'  dear, 
dear  Mother?  Oh,  dear  Mother,  don't  make  me  go  and 
change!    Father 'd  just  say  'never  mind,'  and  laugh." 

"All  right,  trot  along,  trot  along,  ragged  one,"  said 
Clara.  "It's  all  very  well  for  Father  to  say  'Never 
mind '  and  laugh !    Somebody 's  got  to  sew  it  up.    Shool ' ' 

"You  are  wonderful  with  them,"  Eileen  said.  "How 
did  you  learn  how?" 

"Oh  well,  they're  a  kind  of  education  in  themselves," 
Clara  answered.    "One  has  to  step  lively  to  keep  up." 

One  night  Clara  sat  down  to  dinner  with  a  funny 
expression.  "Tommy  says  he  won't  say  his  pray- 
ers again  until  God  speaks  up  and  answers  and  Philip 
says  he  won't  either.  Toddles  was  in  his  bath  or  he'd 
have  chimed  in.  He  hates  to  be  left  out.  Tommy  says 
when  you  talk  to  grown-ups  you  almost  always  get  an 
answer  unless  they're  reading  the  newspaper  and  then 
you  can  if  you  wait.   He  likes  it  better  that  way.    What 's 

319 


DRIFT 

to  be  done  about  it,  do  you  suppose?  Oh,  Eileen,  this 
soup  is  delicious !" 

"You  don't  seem  greatly  concerned,' '  Eileen  re- 
marked.   "What    did  you  tell  him?" 

"Told  him  he  needn't,"  said  Clara.  "If  you  set  din- 
ners like  this  before  me,  111  certainly  put  on  pounds." 

"Isn't  he  ever  going  to  say  any  more  prayers  then?" 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  Clara  went  on,  between 
mouthfuls,  "they  never  said  any  until  last  summer, 
when  Mother  Ainsboro  stayed  with  us.  She  told  me  she 
had  worried  about  it  a  good  deal  and  might  she  teach 
them.  They  were  much  interested  for  a  while,  Katie  en- 
couraged them  with  a  song  at  the  end,  but  lately  they've 
been  getting  restive.  Do  you  suppose  I  could  have  an- 
other plate  of  soup?  It's  a  symphony  of  colour  as 
well  as  flavour.  Whoever  would  have  thought  of  put- 
ting a  slice  of  orange  in  cream  tomato  soup?  Eileen, 
you're  an  artist!" 

"I  didn't  put  it  in,"  Eileen  laughed. 

"No,  but  you  secured  the  cook  who  did,  and  you're 
sitting  there  looking  perfectly  exquisite  in  a  yellow  frock 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table.    It 's  all  one. ' ' 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  Tommy's 
prayers?"  Eileen  asked.  "You  oughtn't  to  be  thinking 
about  soup." 

"Nothing  at  all,"  said  Clara,  "if  he  won't  say  them, 
he  won't.  I  know  my  limitations.  I'll  let  his  father 
have  a  try  if  he  wants  to.  Mother  Ainsboro  is  such  a 
dear!    I'd  like  to  please  her.    It's  difficult  though!" 

"Don't  you  believe  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer?"  Eileen 
asked,  thinking  of  Aunt  Emma. 

"My  goodness,  child!"  Clara  exclaimed,  "don't  be 
so  solemn!  I  don't  disbelieve  in  it.  I  don't  know,  but 
those  jolly  little  pagans,  interrupted  in  their  romp,  can't 
pray,  it's  ridiculous,  making  them!  I  do  hate  to  hear 
them  mumbling  bad  jingly  rhymes  to  a  far-off  Deity 

320 


DRIFT 

about  making  them  ' good'!  That's  my  job.  I  hope  to 
teach  them  to  be  good  along  with  their  table  manners 
and  several  other  things,  then  let  them  forget  the  lesson 
once  it's  acquired.  It  does  seem  a  long  road  though! 
I  wish  children  could  come  into  the  world  a  little  more 
finished,  not  leave  so  much  to  mother ! ' ' 

•'I  don't  know  much  about  it,"  observed  Eileen 
gravely,  "but  you  sound  very  heterodox.  I'm  not  sur- 
prised mother-in-law's  perturbed.  Is  it  permissible  to 
converse  with  Tommy  about  his  religious  views?  I 
should  like  to  know  what  he  thinks.  You  and  Words- 
worth disagree,  don 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Clara,  "only  don't  tell  him'  things, 
make  statements,  I  mean.  It's  so  pathetic,  the  way 
they  believe  everything  they're  told,  and  don't  for 
mercy's  sakes  say  anything  about  the  prayers.  I'm 
afraid  it  was  a  breach  of  confidence  my  telling  you, 
only  I  thought  you  'd  be  amused.  They  are  so  adorable ! 
You  never  can  tell  what  they  are  going  to  do  or  say 
next." 

"So  I  have  observed,"  said  Eileen,  and  Clara  glanced 
at  her  with  a  queer  expression,  and  spoke  of  other 
things. 

If  Clara  had  any  deep  purpose  in  her  easy  talk  of 
the  children,  such  as  Eileen  thought  had  animated  her 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  bazaar,  she  had  attained  her  ob- 
ject. Eileen  was  fully  conscious  of  her  loneliness,  nor 
did  she  now  resent  the  idea  that  Clara  wanted  her  to 
realise  it  before  it  was  too  late.  Clara's  affection  was 
very  real  and  deep. 

Day  by  day  Eileen  watched  the  boys.  They  were  so 
incessantly  and  ingeniously  active  that  she  was  amused 
in  spite  of  herself.  Sometimes  they  were  noisy  and  fa- 
tiguing, but  at  least,  things  happened!  It  was  vastly 
better  than  loneliness  and  silence. 

321 


DRIFT 

When  Ainsboro  came,  she  saw  the  light  in  Clara's  eyes 
as  the  two  strolled  off  together,  forgetting  her  in  the 
absorbing  things  they  had  to  say  to  each  other.  Thome's 
words  came  back  to  her,  ' '  But  now,  I  want  more,  oh,  so 
much  more!"  She  too  "wanted  so  much  more,"  but 
how,  how  was  it  to  be  obtained?  She  thought  over  the 
years  since  she  and  John  had  married.  She  had  not 
realised  during  those  first  years  what  marriage  might 
be,  might  mean.  She  wondered  if  John  had,  if  they 
either  of  them  knew  what  they  were  missing. 

She  had  never  known  how  lonely  she  was  until  the 
winter  Thorne  had  come,  Thorne  with  his  big  ways, 
breathing  the  spirit  of  the  West, — insistent,  demanding. 
How  wonderful  those  weeks  had  been !  And  he  had  gone 
and  left  her!  Of  Medway  she  tried  not  to  think.  A 
picture  rose  before  her, — of  herself,  sitting  with  her 
hands  twisted,  trembling  and  ashamed,  and  Medway 
opening  the  studio  door.  "Well,  you  are  quite  free  to 
go,"  he  had  said.  How  had  he  contrived  to  make  her 
feel  like  that  when  it  was  he  who  should  have  been 
ashamed?  She  wondered  how  much  Crockett  had  di- 
vined. Never,  never  must  anyone  know  of  that  scene 
in  the  studio.  After  waiting  for  some  weeks,  and  hear- 
ing nothing  from  him,  she  had  written  a  little  note. 
"Dear  Mr.  Medway,"  it  ran,  "I  am  sorry  you  mis- 
understood. I  see  that  I  was  very  wrong  in  leaving 
Sophie  at  home,  and  so  making  you  think  that  I  meant 
what  could  not  be.  I  hope  both  of  us  can  forget  and  be 
friends."  Reading  it  in  his  studio,  Medway  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed.  "A  letter  from  Cleopatra!"  he 
said,  and  tore  it  across. 

It  was  a  night  or  two  before  the  end  of  the  children's 
visit  that  Eileen  was  turning  over  a  number  of  new 
magazines  on  the  library  table,  looking  for  something 
to  read  aloud  to  Clara,  busy  with  her  sewing.    She  tried 

322 


DRIFT 

a  story,  but  gave  it  up,  then  various  sentimental  verses. 
"Seem  to  have  heard  thousands  just  like  that,"  ob- 
served Clara,  threading  a  needle.     "Isn't  there  some- 
thing else?" 

Eileen  threw  the  magazine  aside,  and  picked  up  an- 
other. "One  generally  finds  something  in  this,"  she 
remarked;  "they  say  the  publication  is  in  hard  straits." 
She  turned  the  leaves  and  started  to  read  aloud  a 
short  poem,  then  stopped,  too  startled  to  pronounce  the 
words.  She  read  one  or  two  other  things,  then  saying 
that  she  was  tired,  bade  Clara  good-night,  and  went 
upstairs,  taking  the  magazine  with  her.  She  wanted  to 
read  the  poem  over  again  to  try  and  find  out  what  it 
meant. 

It  was  entitled, ' '  Come ! ' ' 

Come  to  me,  my  lover,  come ! 

I  will  give  as  none  other : 

We  have  swayed 

Mouth  to  mouth,  knee  to  knee, 

And  the  surge  of  desire 

Gripped  my  muscles. 

Your  hands,  swift  and  sweet, 
Passed  over  my  shoulders,  my  body, 
Caressing,  possessing: 
My  flesh  leapt  to  your  touch 
With  the  fierceness  you  called. 

Come!  Come! 

I  will  give  as  none  other! 

I  will  bear  your  child,  your  son : 

There  shall  be  sunlight  in  his  eyes 

And  in  his  hair, 

And  over  his  spirit,  great  gladness. 

I  shall  sing 

When  I  feel  in  my  body 
323 


DEIFT 

Your  child  struggling;     • 

I  shall  shout  aloud 

For  the  wonder  and  the  beauty 

And  the  glory 

Of  giving  birth ! 

All  night  the  words  rang  in  her  brain.  * '  The  wonder 
and  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  giving  birth. "  There 
was  a  woman  somewhere,  many  women  perhaps,  who 
had  known  joy  like  that!  Clara,  with  her  gay  talk, 
busy  at  her  mending  downstairs,  did  she  know  what 
that  poem  meant  ?  Oh,  what  had  she  missed  ?  What  had 
she  missed?  And  now  she  would  grow  old  and  die  and 
never  know  what  it  meant  1 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  house  was  unbearable  wiien  Clara  and  the  chil- 
dren had  gone.  Eileen  wandered  about  trying  to 
find  occupation,  trying  not  to  think.  Several  times  she 
drove  over  to  a  near-by  town  to  watch  progress  on 
Aunt  Emma's  "Home,"  now  nearing  completion.  The 
trustees  had  done  their  work  well, — the  place  had 
no  air  of  an  institution.  The  land  that  Aunt  Emma 
had  indicated  as  suitable  was  wooded  and  hilly  with 
eloping  meadows;  the  cottages  had  been  built  so  as  to 
be  out  of  sight  of  each  other,  each  with  a  yard  and 
garden.  As  Eileen  walked  about  she  thought  of  the  pro- 
visions of  the  will, — "a  Home  where  aged  married 
couples  could  remain  together."  She  wondered  if  Aunt 
Emma  1  ad  been  lonely,  if  she  had  envied  others  who 
had  life  companions. 

In  the  evenings  she  would  sit  in  front  of  the  fire  in 
the  library  and  think  over  the  years  that  had  passed 
since  her  marriage.  Of  the  years  ahead,  she  dared  not 
think.  She  Was  not  quite  thirty,  yet  she  felt  that  life 
was  over — over  before  it  was  lived!  As  her  thoughts 
travelled  over  the  past,  she  remembered,  on  the  night 
before  she  went  to  Helena  House,  talking  with  Aunt 
Emma  about  her  mother.  A  phrase  Aunt  Emma  had 
used  came  back  to  her.    "Your  father  asked  her  to  be 

325 


DEIPT 

more  than  she  was,  and  she  just  couldn't  be."  Her 
mother  had  been  very  unhappy  and  much  alone;  now 
she  was  repeating  her  mother's  story — Jshe  was  alone. 
Were  all  marriages  like  that?  Had  John  wanted  more 
from  her  than  she  had  given  him?  If  so,  he  had  never 
told  her,  never  asked.  She  recalled  how  she  had  tried  to 
learn  about  the  silk  business,  but  he  never  seemed  to  want 
her  to.  Thoughts  came  to  her  of  John's  silent  grief  at 
the  time  of  the  child's  death.  She  too  had  grieved,  but 
it  was  not  possible  to  go  through  all  that  again;  he 
could  not  have  expected  it,  and  yet — how  would  it  be 
now — if  there  had  been  children  f  She  wondered  where 
John  was,  she  wanted  him,  wanted  his  companionship ; 
they  had  been  happy  once,  here  at  the  Farm,  perhaps 
they  could  be  again. 

Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  first  few  days  after 
their  marriage.  She  had  been  afraid,  but  he  had  asked 
nothing.  He  had  been  gentle.  The  night  that  she  had 
left  him  reading  downstairs  and  he  had  come  to  her 
pleading  and  taken  her  in  his  arms — what  did  he  want 
then  ?  The  poem  came  to  her — ' i  Come,  my  lover,  come ! 
I  will  give  as  none  other."  Was  that  what  he  wanted 
from  her?  " There  shall  be  sunlight  in  his  eyes  and  on 
his  hair. ' '    Oh,  if  she  could  only  forget  those  words ! 

After  a  week  of  wondering  and  brooding,  she  wrote 
to  John,  "Won't  you  come  to  me?    I  am  so  lonely." 

John  read  the  note  the  next  morning  and  thought 
about  it  all  day.  It  was  many  years  since  she  had  cried 
out  to  him.  He  telegraphed  to  her  that  he  would  come, 
and  by  evening  was  with  her,  greatly  wondering,  greatly 
troubled. 

Eileen  had  spent  the  day  restlessly  planning  how  to 
say  what  she  wanted  to  say.  She  had  no  idea  what  re- 
sponse John  would  make.  He  was  invariably  thoughtful 
and  kind,  but  was  there  more?  She  was  afraid.  Oh 
why,  why,  why  had  she  not  seen,  not  understood? 

326 


DRIFT 

When  his  telegram  reached  her  she  was  glad.  It  was 
two  hours  before  he  could  arrive;  she  must  compose 
herself,  must  decide  what  to  say.  It  would  be  difficult, 
but  together  they  would  find  a  way.  John  had  always 
been  so  good,  so  steadfast!  Happiness  was  possible,  it 
must  be  possible,  if  they  both  determined  that  it  should 
be. 

She  heard  the  motor  turn  into  the  driveway  and  ran 
downstairs.  "John,"  she  cried,  "John!  I  am  so  glad 
'you've  come!  I  wanted  you." 

Something  in  his  face  stopped  her.  With  a  word  of 
greeting,  he  went  upstairs  to  dress,  and  the  ancient  con- 
vention of  dining  kept  them  on  commonplace  topics. 
They  were  served  elaborately,  they  ate  and  drank  as 
usual,  observing  every  propriety ;  they  talked  lightly  on 
various  subjects — yet  each  knew  that  when  the  coffee 
tray  Was  carried  out,  their  naked  souls  would  meet — 
meet  at  last.  Truth — ruthless,  unescapable,  and  dire, 
was  waiting. 

Eileen  was  the  first  to  speak.  All  the  confidence,  all 
the  hope  she  had  been  cherishing  during  the  hours  be- 
fore he  came  had  vanished  with  his  greeting — yet  deep 
down  she  still  thought  that  she  could  reach  him,  that 
memory  would  be  strong  enough  to  recreate  the  hour 
that  was  passed.  All  the  things  she  had  planned  to 
say  fell  from  her ;  she  went  over  to  him  and  stood  beside 
him.  "John,"  she  said,  "we  once  loved  each  other.  I 
see  so  many  things  now  that  I  never  realised  before.  I 
have  been  wrong — terribly  wrong  and  mistaken.  I  want 
to  try  again.  I  want  to  be  with  you.  Tell  me  if  it  is 
possible.  Oh  I  pray,  I  pray  it  may  be — if  it  isn't,  I 
don't  know  what  is  going  to  become  of  me." 

John  did  not  speak  for  a  moment  and  when  he  began, 
she  interrupted,  "Don't  say  there  isn't  any  hope,  don't! 
I  know  there  is,  for  now  I  see  where  I  have  failed.  I  did 
not  know  at  the  time,  I  can't  tell  why  it  wjas  or  what 

327 


DRIFT 

made  it  all  go  wrong,  but  I  know,  I  know  it  can  be 
different.  Oh  John,  don't  look  at  me  like  that — tell  me 
there's  hope,  tell  me  you  love  me — that  we  can  find  hap- 
piness again !  Tell  me,  you  see  what  I  mean.  Oh  John, 
I'm  pleading  to  you — pleading  for  your  love — don't 
you  see?  Haven't  you  anything  to  say  to  me?  I  want 
you,  I  want  you!" 

At  her  last  words  a  terrible  sound  broke  from  him. 
It  was  as  if  in  that  one  cry  all  the  pain  of  the  years 
that  were  past  had  found  expression. 

He  rose  quickly  and  walked  away  from  her.  "There 
is  something  that  you  must  be  told,"  he  said,  "that  I 
must  explain, — there  is  some  one  to  whom  I  am  pledged. 
She  has  been — everything  to  me.  There  are  two  chil- 
dren, my  children."  Then  at  Eileen's  look — ."Do  you 
understand?  We  have  lived  together  as  man  and  wife 
for  a  long  time.  There  is  a  boy,  Jack — he  is  nearly  three, 
and  the  baby — Nora.  I  love  them' — they  are  mine.  I 
must  do  what  is  best  for  them  now,  and  for  their 
mother.    It  is  all  I  can  do,  isn  't  it  ?  " 

Eileen  took  a  little  while  before  she  said  slowly,  "Yes, 
of  course,  you  must  do  what  is  best  for  them,  and  for 
their  mother ;  yes — of  course — yes,  that  is  the  only  thing 
to  do,  of  course.    She  is  your  mistress,  isn't  she?" 

"I  never  think  of  her  so,"  John  answered.  "She  is 
very  good  to  me  and  to  the  children.  She  is  a  good 
woman — and  a  charming  one  besides.  My  mother  knew 
her.  Do  you  remember  I  told  you  that  I  had  a  letter 
which  she  had  left  for  me?  I  had  it  with  me  when  I  was 
here  the  last  time,  but  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  read 
it — to  tell  you  what  I  knew  you  must  know  soon;  you 
seemed  so  sad  that  I  put  it  off." 

Eileen  gazed  at  him.  She  was  trying  to  take  it  in — 
that  his  mother  knew.    John  went  on : 

"The  letter  was  only  what  she  had  said  when  she 
was  living.    She  was  greatly  troubled  about  our  situa- 

.328 


DRIFT 

tion — more  so  than  we  were,  I  think.  We  were  happy, 
and  that  seemed  enough.  She  said  it  was  cruel — to 
Margaret." 

He  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket  with  the  inscription 
"For  my  son,  John.  To  be  opened  after  my  death." 
He  unfolded  it  slowly,  and  his  eye  travelled  down  the 
page.  "  'Present  pain  must  be  inflicted, '  "  he  read; 
"  'it  is  a  lesser  wrong  than  injustice  to  those  who  are 
helpless.'  "  His  face  worked.  After  a  moment  he 
folded  the  letter,  holding  it  out  to  her.  Eileen  made  a 
little  gesture  of  denial.    She  could  guess  what  it  said. 

An  image  of  Mrs.  Templeton  came  before  her — tall, 
stately,  formidable,  and  she  knew !  John  had  made  his 
mother  aware  of  this  hidden  thing,  he  had  brought  his 
mistress  to  her — it  was  incredible.  Why?  Why?  The 
poem  flashed  to  her  mind.  Had  that  woman — had 
John's  mistress — " given  as  none  other"?  Was  that  why? 

She  heard  John  speaking  as  from  far  off.  "You  will 
wonder,  perhaps,  how  it  came  about  that  I  could  act  so 
against  every  tradition,  every  law,  as  we  know  law.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  there  was  a  strange  irony  in 
my  working  so  hard  to  secure  law — in  other  directions. 
I  believe  there  must  come  a  time  to  every  one  when 
there  is  need  to  decide  for  oneself.  One  weighs — and 
then  one  does  what  one  must — <to  live.  The  only  ques- 
tion is,  how?  Well,  I  chose  this  way.  When  I  was  a 
boy  I  made  a  great  renunciation.  I  gave  up  what  I 
most  desired.  Later  in  life  I  came  to  believe  that  that 
renunciation  had  been  of  no  avail,  had  been  wrong. 
When  I  met  Margaret  I  resolved  that  not  again  would 
I  give  up  what  was  dearer  to  me  than  life  itself.  I 
have  not  regretted  this  decision.  I  think  that  is  the 
only  explanation  I  can  offer.  My  mother  understood — a 
little — I  think.  I  don't  know  how  mUch.  I  always  kept 
from  her  what  my  giving  up  music  had  cost  me,  that 
time  as  a  boy,  but  I  think  she  must  have  realised.     Once 

329 


DRIFT 

she  said  to  me,  'I  have  come  to  believe  that  it  is  a  very 
dangerous  thing  to  urge  another  person  to  any  course  of 
action.  I  did  not  always  think  this.'  It  was  this  con- 
sciousness, perhaps,  that  made  her  so  good  to — Mar- 
garet.' ' 

It  was  increasingly  difficult  for  him  to  speak.  He 
looked  at  her  now  as  if  praying  that  she  understand, 
that  she  spare  him  the  need  of  further  words. 

"I  think  I  see,"  Eileen  said.  "You  wanted  happiness 
— and  you  found  it.  We  all  want  happiness — some  of 
us  don't  find  it,  don't  see  the  way,  I  mean,  even  when 
it  is  there — before  us." 

There  was  silence.  To  each  the  matter  seemed  sim- 
plified, almost  stark.  They  had  missed  their  way  to- 
gether. John  had  found  what  he  desired;  Eileen  had 
not.    Now  what  was  to  come  ? 

Finally  Eileen  said,  "I  suppose  you  want  a  divorce 
from  me.  Perhaps  you  have  wanted  it  for  a  long  time, 
as  your  mother  said.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  Each 
word  fell  separately ;  her  voice  had  the  sound  of  broken 
strings. 

"I  have  no  grounds  for  a  divorce  from  you,"  John 
answered.  "It  must  be  the  other  way.  There  are 
methods  I  understand  of  doing  these  things  decently. 
I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  that  you  shall  be  spared  as 
much  as  possible." 

"Yes,  yes.  Please  don't  say  things  like  that,  I  can't 
bear  it!"  but  John  went  on: 

"I  have  no  defence  to  make.  I  am  'guilty,'  but  as  I 
told  you  just  now,  I  do  not  wish  anything  that  is  done, 
undone.  The  human  animal  takes  what  it  needs  to  live. 
I  suppose  it  would  sound  to  you  incredibly  banal  for  me 
to  tell  you  that  I  still  want  to  care  for  you  as  much  as  I 
can,  as  much  as  you  will  let  me.  You  need  some  one 
you  know,  that's  why— well,  I've  kept  track  of  things— 

330 


DRIFT 

you  see — Oh,  please  believe  me,  Eileen,  I  am  speaking 
the  truth." 

Eileen  looked  up  at  this  but  he  could  not  read  her 
face.  "Perhaps  you  will  understand — sometime,"  he 
said.  "There  are  deep  memories  between  us.  Nothing 
can  change  that. ' ' 

"Don't  let  us  talk  of  the  past,  please!  It  will  be  neces- 
sary to  decide  what  is  to  be  done.  What  are  your 
plans  ?" 

"I  have  no  right,  of  course,  to  ask  comprehension — 
from  you,  yet  I  hoped  that  I  could  make  you  see — how 
it  had  come  about — why  I  want  to  keep  on  caring  for 
you." 

"Yes,"  said  Eileen,  "I  understand  perfectly.  You 
loved  her  and  you  wanted  her.  That  is  very  simple.  I 
wish  that  I  had  known,  that  is  all.  Please  go  on  now. 
What  is  to  be  done?" 

"Nothing  for  a  little,"  he  said.  "I  must  talk  to 
Margaret.' '  John's  voice  had  taken  the  same  dull  tone 
as  her  own.  "She  is  a  force  to  be  reckoned  with.  For 
us  it  does  not  matter — no  ceremony  could  make  our  rela- 
tionship more  perfect — but  in  the  world  we  live  in,  the 
children — what  is  to  become  of  them?  Are  they  to  be 
punished?  What  can  I  do  for  them  now?"  He  cov- 
ered his  face.  In  all  the  years,  Eileen  had  never  seen 
him  give  way ;  it  was  terrible  to  her. 

"You  said  you  wished  that  you  had  known,"  John 
went  on,  "I  don't  know  why  I  didn't  tell  you.  I  think 
I  was  afraid.  I  thought  you  needed  me.  This  other 
was  far  outside.  Margaret  had  nothing  that  was  yours — 
nothing  that  you  wanted  from  me,  I  mean,  and  she  has 
been  content  to  live  alone  seeing  no  one,  and  she  has 
been  happy.    Yes — she  has  been  happy." 

"But  we  must  plan  what  to  do,  how  to  act."  It  was 
the  one  thing  Eileen  seemed  able  to  keep  clear. 

They  tried  to   make   plans   but   found   it   impossi- 

331 


DRIFT 

ble.  John  did  not  know  what  to  tell  her ;  her  thoughts 
were  travelling  over  the  past  years,  searching,  seeking, 
for  explanation — confirmation. 

After  a  silence  Eileen  said,  "I  should  like  to  see  her, 
may  I?" 

"No!"  Again  there  was  silence.  John  considered. 
His  first  impulse  had  been  furious  dissent,  but  he  was 
anxious  to  agree  to  whatever  Eileen  wished  or  asked. 
The  request  seemed  to  him  incomprehensible,  but  after 
a  moment  he  went  to  the  desk  and  wrote  on  a  bit  of 
paper  a  name  and  address. 

"It's  an  apartment,"  he  said.  "You'll  think  it's 
queer,  but  I  love  it.  Margaret  found  it  and  arranged  it 
as  she  liked.  It  is  sunshiny  and  has  a  view  of  the  river. 
I  believe  those  were  her  reasons  for  its  selection.  You 
won't  be  able  to  imagine  being  happy  in  surroundings 
like  that,  but — well — Margaret  wishes  it  as  it  is — that  is 
all  that  is  necessary,  isn't  it?  It's  been  home  to  me." 
He  looked  quickly  at  her.  "I  didn't  mean  to  say  that. 
Forgive  me!" 

' '  Why  not  say  it  since  it 's  true  ? ' '  Eileen  set  her  lips. 
The  words  had  roused  her  to  angry  bitterness.  She 
took  the  little  piece  of  paper  and  stared  at  the  address. 
"So!  That  is  where  your  mistress  lives?" 

"Please  do  not  use  that  word."  John's  tone  was  as 
sharp  as  her  own.  "However,  I  admit  it,  and  I  honour 
her  for  it — for  what  she  gives.  She  is  my  mistress,  but 
are  you  my  wife?" 

For  a  moment  Eileen  found  no  answer.  "It  is  not 
my  fault."  She  breathed  the  words  and  knew  from  his 
silence  how  he  took  the  statement. 

"Then  I  may  go  to  see  her?"  She  watched  John's 
J>ack  as  he  turned  from  her  to  walk  about  the  room. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  see  her?" 

Eileen   caught   her  breath.     "Why?     Why?"   she 

332 


DRIFT 

echoed.  "  Because  she  belongs  to  you — because  she  has 
everything  that  I  have  not." 

John  turned  at  this  and  stared  at  her  as  if  he  had 
never  seen  her  before.  "Very  well,"  he  said,  "she  has 
-'everything  that  you  have  not.'  You  may  go  and  see 
her  on  one  condition, — that  you  do  not  let  her  know 
that  you  know  me  or  that  you  have  any  connection  with 
my  life." 

"I  had  no  intention  of  doing  so.  Did  you  suppose  I 
wanted  to  make  a  scene — enact  the  role  of  jealous  wife 
and  reproach  her?  I  assure  you  that  was  not  in  my 
mind.  You  can  trust  me  to  be  courteous."  Suddenly 
she  remembered  Victoria's  sneer — "manners  are  your 
long  suit."    Would  the  woman  never  let  her  alone? 

"Oh  Eileen!"  John  cried,  "Eileen!  Don't  let  us 
descend  to  this!  Do  you  think  I  am  proud  of  my  po- 
sition in  this  affair?  I  am  profoundly  ashamed.  Mar- 
garet has  given  me  everything — everything  a  woman  can 
give  a  man  and  she  has  done  it  grandly,  proudly, — and 
I  hide  her  away — her  and  my  children!  Can  you 
imagine  the  torment,  the  intolerable  torment  of  that?" 

Eileen  bent  her  head.  Again  there  was  a  silence. 
Finally  she  said,  "I  shall  go  tomorrow." 

1 '  But  upon  what  pretext  ? ' '  John  asked.  l  c  You  cannot 
go  to  the  door  and  say  you  want  to  talk  to  her." 

"I  shall  find  a  way,"  Eileen  told  him  and  left  him 
alone. 

In  a  little  while  she  heard  him  go  away. 


CHAPTER  XXXVn 

FENDING  a  way  was  difficult.  Eileen  thought  of  vari- 
ous methods,  only  to  reject  them.  Finally  she  de- 
cided to  go  to  the  apartment  and  trust  to  the  moment 
for  giving  some  excuse  for  her  presence. 

The  next  day  she  went  to  the  city.  She  dressed  her- 
self as  simply  as  possible.  What  a  queer  proceeding! 
A  man's  wife  going  to  see  his  mistress  under  a  promise 
not  to  reveal  her  identity.  "It  is  preposterous !"  she 
said  to  herself,  "horrible  and  melodramatic  and  unbear- 
able/ '  Yet  something  within  her  kept  planning  what 
she  would  say,  how  comport  herself. 

Actually  before  the  door,  her  courage  almost  failed 
her.  Why  should  she  do  this  thing?  She  rang  and 
waited.  After  a  second  Margaret  came,  Margaret, — 
who  had  "everything  that  she  had  not.,, 

What  Eileen  saw  was  a  tall  woman,  about  thirty  she 
thought.  Her  calico  dress  was  open  over  a  white,  round 
throat.  Her  face  was  tender  and  serene.  There  was 
a  moment's  pause,  then  she  said  quietly,  "What  is  it 
you  wish?    I  am  Mrs.  Rankin.' ' 

"Mrs.  Rankin,"  Eileen  answered,  "I  have  come  on  a 
matter  of  business.    May  I  come  in  and  see  you?" 

Margaret  motioned  to  the  sitting-room  and  took  off 
her  apron.  "I'll  come  back  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  "if 
you'll  please  excuse  me." 

Eileen  entered  the  room,  glad  of  a  moment's  space  to 

334 


** 


DRIFT 

think.  What  she  saw  as  she  glanced  around  mlade  her 
twist  her  lips  into  a  wry  smile.  So  this  was  where  John 
came !    He  had  said  it  was  ' '  home ' ' ! 

The  room  was  cheerful,  certainly.  The  walls  were 
papered  in  yellow,  with  a  frieze  of  yellow  roses  around 
the  top.  The  furniture  was  covered  with  figured  chintz. 
In  the  window  embrasures  were  flower  boxes,  gay  with 
many-coloured  blossoms.  There  were  books  about  and 
photographs  and  magazines.  Files  of  the  "International 
Studio' '  and  the  "Geographic  Magazine*'  were  piled  up 
on  the  table,  where  were  also  large  picture  books  and  a 
silk  work  bag.  In  the  corner  of  the  room  was  a  violin  and 
a  pile  of  music  near  the  rack.  On  the  mantel  was  a 
tobacco  pouch  of  faded  embroidery.  She  had  not  seen 
it  for  years.  Near  it  lay  a  little  pile  of  kodak  pictures. 
She  picked  one  up — John!  her  husband!  This  was 
John — she  couldn  't  take  it  in.  Perched  on  his  shoulder, 
its  bare  feet  against  his  chest,  was  a  laughing  child.  His 
hands  were  stretched  out,  holding  the  hands  of  the 
child.  His  face  was  turned  and  looking  up,  with  an 
expression  that  she  had  forgotten  John's  face  could 
wear, — so  gay  it  was,  so  boyishly  free  of  everything  but 
the  moment's  joy.  She  remembered  that  radiant  look 
on  the  evening  they  had  first  met  and  again  during  those 
few  weeks  at  the  Farm;  but  never  since, — never  for 
her.  She  laid  the  picture  down;  there  were  a  number 
of  others ;  she  could  not  look  at  them. 

As  she  replaced  the  photograph,  Margaret  entered, 
in  a  fresh  dress  of  white,  her  ruddy  hair  plaited  and 
bound  about  her  head.    "Yes?"  she  said  and  waited. 

Eileen  turned  at  her  word,  and  through  the  open 
door  by  which  Margaret  had  entered  caught  a  glimpse 
into  the  room  beyond.  What  she  saw  was  simple 
enough, — two  single  beds  of  brass  with  fresh,  white  coun- 
terpanes, on  either  side  a  child's  crib,  one,  the  smaller, 
with  high  sides.     It  was  unbelievable.     She  could  not 

335 


DEIFT 

bear  it!  All  at  once  her  self-possession  forsook  her. 
She  had  not  thought  the  sight  of  the  rooms  where  he— - 
her  husband — lived,  where  his  real  life  was  spent, 
would  affect  her  as  they  did.  The  woman,  Margaret, 
standing  waiting,  seemed  only  a  part  of  the  strange 
dream,  not  even  the  most  important  part.  Those  two 
little  beds,  one  on  each  side,  and  she  had  called  her 
"your  mistress.' '  Was  this  the  way  a  man  lived  with 
his  mistress? 

The  silence  was  too  prolonged.  "Will  you  tell  me 
what  it  is  you  want?"  Margaret  said,  with  a  note  of 
wonder. 

Eileen  pointed  to  the  bedroom.  "You  have  two 
children,' '  she  said.  "How  old  are  they?"  She  al- 
most stammered. 

"Yes,"  Margaret  answered,  "John,  the  boy,  is  two 
and  a  half,  the  baby  is  six  months.  Her  name  is 
Nora.  Would  you  please  tell  me  why  you  want  to 
know?"  There  was  a  shade  of  defiance  in  the  tone. 
Eileen  took  it  to  mean  that  was  as  far  as  questioning 
about  the  children  might  go. 

"I  have  no  children,"  she  said;  "I  had  one  once,  but 
it  did  not  live." 

"Yes?"  said  Margaret,  and  waited. 

Eileen  had  a  sensation  of  unreality  that  springs  from 
too  intense  a  realisation  of  actuality.  She  knew  she  must 
explain  her  presence. 

"You  will  think  I  am  very  odd,"  she  went  on,  "but 
you  see  I  am  not  a  very  happy  person  and  I  am  very 
lonely.  I  should  like  to  do  something  if  I  could  for 
someone  who  is  happier  than  I,  someone  with  little 
children." 

"Isn't  it  usually  the  other  way?" 

"I  suppose  so/'  Eileen  admitted,  "but  I  told  you  I 
^waS  a  queer  person.  I  have  a  good  deal  more, — more 
money— fchan  I  know  what  to- do  with.    If  my  child  had 

336 


DEIFT 

lived,  of  course  there  would  have  been  an  object,  but 
just  now  there  isn't  any,  and  I  thought  perhaps  if  I 
could  find  someone  who  would  let  me — to  whom  I 
could — "  Margaret's  face  warned  her  to  stop. 

"I'm  not  making  myself  clear/ '  she  said. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Margaret,  "I  understand  quite  well, 
and  it's  a  very  kind  thought,  but  I  don't  need  any- 
thing, if  you're  thinking  of  me.  I  don't  know  why  you 
came  to  see  me  yet,  you  haven't  told  me." 

"Please  let  that  go  without  explanation,"  Eileen  in- 
terrupted. "You,  who  are  happy,  couldn't  you  take 
me  on  faith,  believe  in  what  I  say,  I  mean?  You 
must  see,  I  think,  that  I  don't  mean  any  harm  to  you 
or  to  your  children.  I'm  just  trying  in  my  stupid, 
blundering  way  to  help  someone,  someone  who  is  happy, 
but  it  seems  more  difficult  than  I  thought.  Of  course 
there  are  lots  of  ways  to  give  money, — (hospitals,  charity 
societies  and  things  like  that,  but  I  am  superstitious.  I 
thought  if  I  could  give  some  of  what  I  don't  need,  what 
I  find  burdensome,  to  someone  who  would  like  and 
enjoy  it, — I  thought  perhaps  if  I  could  find  a  woman 
whom  a  man  loved  very  dearly  who  would  like  to  have 
the  means  to  buy  pretty  dresses  to  please  him — why 
then — It  would  make  me  happier,  to  think  about  them." 

She  was  quite  as  much  surprised  by  her  own  words  as 
Margaret,  who  sat  regarding  her  gravely. 

Margaret's  face  wore  an  odd  expression.  "It's  a 
queer  thought,"  she  said,  and  rose  to  go  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room.  Eileen  thought  she  was  going  away. 
"I  don't  think  my  husband  would  like  me  any  better 
in  different  dresses,"  she  said  and  swung  around.  "If 
I  did,  I'd  buy  them." 

Eileen  tried  to  detect  any  sign  of  hesitation  before 
the  word.  There  was  none,  nor  any  self-consciousness. 
Evidently  it  was  so  she  thought  of  John. 

337 


DRIFT 

Margaret  had  remained  standing  and  Eileen  under- 
stood she  thought  that  everything  necessary  had  been 
said.  She  felt  curiously  helpless  before  this  calm 
woman  with  her  smilmg  air. 

"But  the  children ?"  Her  invented  desire  was  be- 
coming a  real  one;  to  help  John's  children,  unknown  to 
him ;  what  a  strange  thing  that  would  be  to  do ! 

For  the  first  time  Margaret's  manner  showed  uneasi- 
ness. "My  children  don't  want  for  anything  either," 
she  said.  "Their  father  would  not  want  me  to  accept 
anything  from  a  stranger.  Please  don't  keep  asking  me. 
I  am  sure  there  are  a  great  many  women  who  would  be 
glad  of  an  offer  like  this.  Why  did  you  come  to  me?" 
She  wished,  evidently,  to  end  the  conversation. 

Eileen  rose.  "I  have  come  on  a  futile  errand,"  she 
said.  "I  must  try  somewhere  else  and  there  are  so  few 
happy  people !  It  would  be  quite  useless  for  me  to  give 
to  anyone  who  was  not;  quite  useless  as  far  as  helping 
me,  I  mean.  I  fear  you  must  think  me  very  strange. 
Perhaps  I  am.  May  I  say  one  more  queer  thing  to  you 
before  I  go  ?  "  She  held  out  her  hand  and  Margaret  put 
hers  into  it.  "Be  glad  of  this  little  apartment,  be  glad 
of  this  bright  wall  paper  and  be  glad  of  those— those 
two  little  cribs  in  there  and  that  you're  busy  all  the 
time;  that's  everything,  isn't  it?" 

All  of  a  sudden  Margaret's  aloofness  gave  way.  Her 
voice  trembled  as  she  said,  "What  made  you  think  I  was 
the  happy  person  you  were  looking  for?    Tell  me." 

Eileen  was  unprepared  for  the  sudden,  intense  tone. 
"Aren't  you?"  she  asked,  but  Margaret  was  on  guard 
again. 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  she  said,  "but  how  did  you  hear 
about  me;  what  made  you  come  here,  I  mean?" 

"It's  too  much  like  a  child's  story  book,"  Eileen 
replied,  "for  you  to  believe  me  if  I  told  you.  I  rang  at 
the  other  five  doors  in  the  building  before  I  came  to 

338 


DRIFT 

yours ;  none  of  the  other  women  who  opened  to  me  looked 
happy,  so  I  just  said  I  had  made  a  mistake.  Then  I 
found  you  and  came  in  and  you  are  sending  me  away 
just  as  lonely  and  helpless  as  I  came."  She  heard  her- 
self saying  the  words  with  an  amused  dismay.  So  this 
Was  where  her  determination  to  see  Margaret  had  led 
her, — to  these  ridiculous  lies.  Again  she  was  swept  by 
a  dream-like  sensation  of  unreality. 

Margaret's  expression  had  become  a  little  anxious; 
she  looked  attracted  and  puzzled  and  was  evidently 
curious.  "I  never  heard  of  anybody  who  had  such 
ideas,"  she  said,  ''that  wasn't  sick." 

"Well,  and  if  I  am  sick?"  Eileen  broke  in,  "although 
not  in  the  way  you  mean.  I  am  quite  sane,  only  very, 
very  unhappy  and  in  my  search  for  comfort  I  sometimes 
hit  upon  strange  plans  and  pursue  them.  Just  now  I 
have  the  wish  to  share  what  I  have  with  a — friend.  I 
think  that  is  what  I  really  want,  at  the  bottom — a  happy, 
gay  friend  whom  I  could  talk  to  sometimes  about  happy 
things  and  so  forget  myself."  Her  tone  was  tremulous, 
soft,  winning.  Margaret  frowned  and  Eileen  pushed 
her  advantage. 

"I  haven't  any  very  definite  idea,"  she  said.  "What  I 
said  about  new  dresses  just  came  into  my  head.  You 
seem  to  be  everything  that  I  am  not, — busy,  contented, 
serene;  you  have  a  home  and  children.  I  have  a  big 
house,  a  big,  beautiful  house  with  beautiful  things  in  it, 
but  it  is  terribly  empty  and  silent  and  so  I  reach  out — 
to  you.    Won't  you  grant  my  wish?" 

"It  is  such  an  extraordinary  one!"  Margaret  said, 
"I  should  certainly  have  to  think  about  it."  There 
came  a  pause  and  then  Margaret's  face  lighted.  "Why 
don't  you  adopt  a  youngster  from  the  orphan  asylum?" 
she  said,  "if  your  house  is  so  empty?  You  might  take 
two,  to  keep  each  other  company.  They're  jolly  little 
grigs,  some  of  them ;  I  've  been  there.    I  thought  of  doing 

339 


DRIFT 

that  once, — before — these  came."  She  beckoned  vaguely 
towards  the  bedroom. 

A  peculiar  vision  of  herself  rose  in  Eileen's  mind.  She 
remembered  that  afternoon  at  Clara's  and  the  three  red 
gnomes, — it  Was  the  day  before  Thorne  went  away. 
There  was  the  suggestion  of  a  pause.  "I'm  afraid  that 
is  not  practicable, ' '  she  said. 

Margaret  felt  herself  melting  before  that  soft,  plead- 
ing voice.  She  was  amused  and  a  little  vexed.  Why 
should  she  be  taking  thought  for  the  occupation  of 
this  gracefully  eccentric  person  who  wandered  about  in 
pursuit  of  " happy  people"?  It  was  absurd;  neverthe- 
less she  tried  to  think  of  some  other  plan  to  make  the 
lady  happy. 

"Why  don't  you  travel?"  she  asked.  "Sometimes  I 
feel  as  if  I  simply  couldn't  wait  to  see  the  things  I  want 
to  see, — when  I  read  about  them,  I  mean.  I've  always 
wanted  to  visit  the  English  cathedrals  the  miost  of  all. 
Perhaps  you  do  travel?  Doesn't  that  make  you  happy — 
to  be  able  to,  I  mean?" 

"Sometimes." 

Margaret  was  silent ;  she  appeared  to  think  there  was 
no  particular  use  of  offering  suggestions  to  a  person  who 
could  travel  and  didn't. 

After  a  moment  Eileen  asked,  "Won't  you  let  me 
see  your  children  ?  I  should  like  to.  They  sleep  in  those 
two  little  beds  in  there,  don't  they?" 

"They  are  out  in  the  park,"  Margaret  said  in  a  tone 
that  showed  she  was  still  thinking.  "About  what  you 
wanted, — tf'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  It's  a  funny  idea 
you  have,  but  you  have  told  me  and  I  imagine  I  under- 
stand partially.  Sometimes  I  am  happy, — I  mean  most 
of  the  time  I  am  happy.  If  you'll  come  again  in  a  little 
while,  say  a  week,  I'll  know  better  what  to  say.  Will 
that  be  all  right?" 

Eileen  saw  the  scene,' — John  here  in  this  gaudy  room, 

340 


DRIFT 

Margaret  with  him,  close  to  him,  caressed  by  him,  telling 
him  of  today's  interview,  repeating  her — Eileen's — 
fantastic  explanations,  asking  counsel  what  to  do  about 
the  melancholy  person  who  had  come  to  see  her.  The 
idea  was  intolerable. 

- 'That  will  be  all  right,' '  she  said,  "and  I  thank  you; 
and  now  I  am  going  to  ask  you  one  thing, — that  you  will 
tepeak  to  no  one  of  my  visit,  of  what  we  have  said." 

"I  can't  promise  that,"  Margaret  interposed.  "It 
would  be  rather  like  deceiving,  not  to,  wouldn't  it?" 

So  this  was  one  of  the  reasons  John  cared  for  her, 
Hhis  frankness  and  simplicity.  A  sense  of  the  complete- 
ness of  his  possession  of  this  woman  came  to  her.  She 
(gave  him,  then,  every  thought,  and  what  did  he  with- 
hold from  her?  Everything  that  had  to  do  with  fact, 
with  outward  circumstance.  Probably  he  gave  her  all 
that  had  to  do  with  spirit.  She  had  always  thought 
John  inexpressive;  was  this  woman  content  to  accept 
only  affection  and  caresses?  It  was  impossible.  The 
relationship  had  endured  for  some  years.  What  was  in 
her  that  held  him  besides  the  children?  There  must  be 
something — understanding,  community  of  thought;  he 
had  said  their  relationship  "could  not  be  more  perfect." 
What  was  it? 

"Of  course  I  cannot  ask  you  to  promise  anything," 
Eileen  said,  "but  I  am  sure  you  will  remember  that  my 
wish  was  you  should  not  do  so, — that,  I  think,  will  be  a 
sufficient  restraint.  I  will  go  now  and  I  will  come  back 
in  a  week." 

Margaret  protested.  "No,"  she  said,  "it  would  be 
useless,  I  assure  you,  for  you  to  come  back.  When  I 
spoke  as  I  did  just  now  I  suppose  I  was — a  bit  sorry, — 
you  seemed  so  troubled,  but  I  really  cannot  do  what 
you  want." 

'  '  Very  well, ' '  Eileen  said.   ' '  Thank  you  for  letting  me 

341 


DRIFT 

come  in  and  for  being  so  courteous.  I  shall  always  re- 
member I  have  talked  with  one  happy  person." 

She  opened  the  door  and  turned  to  say  good-bye. 
"Forget  all  that  I  have  said."  Eileen's  voice  was  low 
and  her  words  fell  slowly.  "Just  be  glad  of  being  busy 
and  of  the  bright  wall  paper  and  the  two  little  beds." 
She  turned  and  shut  the  door. 

She  did  not  see  that  Margaret's  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

EILEEN  had  told  John  that  she  would  stop  over  night 
at  the  house  in  town.  On  the  way  there  she  went 
over  what  had  been  said, — was  there  ever  a  more  ex- 
traordinary interview? 

As  she  entered  her  own  house  she  looked  about  the 
stately  hall,  then  went  into  the  drawing-room;  strange 
contrast  to  the  rooms  she  had  just  left!  She  remem- 
bered Thome's  exclamation,  "My  word!  does  one  sit 
down  and  talk  here?"  She  wondered  about  Thorne. 
He  went  away  believing  she  did  not  love  him.  Perhaps 
she  did  not,  she  could  not  tell.  What  had  he  been  doing 
all  these  years?  And  when  she  sent  Thorne  away 
John  was  already — oh,  it  was  incredible — unbearable! 

And  John?  She  tried  to  think  out  what  had  been 
his  thoughts,  his  desires  during  the  time  before  he  met 
Margaret.  How  little  she  had  understood!  Since  her 
visit  to  the  apartment  which  John  had  said  was  his 
home,  part  of  her  resentment  had  faded. 

She  wanted  to  do  what  was  best  now,  not  to  fail  again. 
Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  time  of  Aunt  Emma's 
death.  John  had  told  her  why  she  had  not  been  able 
to  reach  him  then.  How  kind  he  had  been  to  her  at  that 
time,  with  this  big  new  thing  occupying  his  thoughts! 
She  could  not  remember  a  time  in  the  ten  years  since 
their  marriage  when  he  had  failed  her.    It  seemed  very 

343 


DEIFT 

strange  that  so  much  could  take  place  of  which  she  was 
wholly  ignorant.  She  had  never  guessed,  never  thought 
there  might  be  important  things  in  his  life  apart  from 
her.  It  seemed  incredible  that  she  could  have  been  so 
unaware. 

She  was  puzzled  now  what  course  to  pursue,  what  was 
best  to  do.  John  would  guide  her ;  he  would  find  the  way 
and  tell  her  what  he  wanted  her  to  do.  She  had  a  wish 
to  do  something  for  the  children.  It  had  been  born 
with  her  fanciful  explanation  of  her  presence;  now 
it  was  real.  She  thought  if  she  could  make  someone 
happier,  perhaps  she  could  find  a  way  of  living  through 
the  years  ahead. 

Finally  John  came  and  stood  before  her.  He  held  his 
hat  and  walking  stick  in  his  hand.  She  looked  up ;  they 
made  no  greetings. 

"I  have  seen  Margaret,' '  she  said,  "and  I  think  I 
understand.    Tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do." 

"Nothing;  at  least  for  the  present.  What  is  there  to 
do?  You  are  blameless, — it  is  I  who  am  what  the  law- 
yers call  the  guilty  party.  I  don't  know  yet  what 
can  be  done.  I  can't  ask  you  to  take  any  steps.  It  may 
be  necessary  for  one  of  us  to  go  away  for  a  time.  I 
may  ask  you  to  do  that — but — it  all  seems  so  crazy,  the 
main  facts  are  so  simple,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  not 
to  pretend,  to  proceed  in  the  most  direct  way — I  don't 
know — "  He  spoke  uncertainly,  holding  himself  to  the 
bare  statements.  He  longed  to  tell  her  that  he  knew  what 
she  felt,  that  he  longed  to  help  her,  comfort  her  as  he  had 
so  many  times ;  but  it  seemed  impossible  to  express  any- 
thing but  these  ghastly  plans.  As  she  drooped  before 
him  with  trembling  lips,  her  whole  attitude  expressing 
her  helplessness,  the  old  tenderness  arose  in  him,  the 
desire  to  shield ;  but  he  knew  that  to  make  any  move,  to 
touch  her  or  to  say  one  word  would  seem  to  her  merely 
grotesque. 

344 


DRIFT 

She  looked  up  at  him.  "I  will  wait  for  your  direc- 
tions. Please  be  sure  that  I  want  to  do  what  I  can, — 
what  is  best." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  dusk  was  gathering  outside. 
The  great  room  was  ghostly  in  its  strange  summer  cov- 
erings— grey  and  black,  all  the  colour  gone.  From  the 
shadows  around  them  rose,  for  them  both,  the  troubled 
sense  of  all  the  tragic  inadequacies  and  conflicts  of  the 
past,  mingled,  as  in  a  web,  with  the  lights  of  their  hap- 
pier days  and  the  deeper  luminousness  of  those  fierce 
realities  they  had  endured  in  the  days  when  the  child 
had  been  a  hope  or  a  memory.  This  could  not  be  for- 
gotten or  escaped.  It  was  there  in  the  past;  now  it 
was  over ;  their  ways  henceforward  lay  apart.  The  hour 
had  over  it  a  spectral  light,  from  what  had  been  and 
what  was  soon  to  be. 

After  a  time,  neither  knew  how  long,  John  went  from 
her,  quietly,  with  no  word.  Only  their  eyes  met  as  they 
made  their  farewell. 

It  was  the  next  day  and  Eileen  was  alone  at  the 
Farm.  She  made  no  pretence  of  doing  anything.  She 
sat  in  the  library,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  staring 
into  the  future.    It  must  be  lived — how? 

A  letter  was  brought  to  her  from  Helen.  She  opened 
it  listlessly.  At  the  top  Were  the  words  "Read  when 
you  are  alone.' '  The  hard  silence  that  had  been  about 
her  gave  way  and  she  sobbed  uncontrollably  and  for  a 
long  time,  until  she  was  spent  and  weak.  The  letter  fell 
upon  the  floor.  It  was  perhaps  an  hour  later  when  she 
saw  it  and  picked  it  up  to  read. 

"My  Dear,  I  have  written  those  words  at  the  top 
because  I  am  going  to  tax  your  friendship  to  the  utter- 
most.   Please  bear  with  me  through  what  will  be  per- 

345 


DEIFT 

haps  but  a  confused  explanation,  I  want  you  to  know 
how  everything  has  come  to  be. 

"  First  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  have  begun  to  live 
again,  more  than  that,  I  am  happy ;  I,  who  thought  life 
was  over !  I  have  fallen  in  love, — not  with  the  wildness 
of  the  first  dream, — that  could  never  come  again, — but 
very  deeply  and  truly.  It  is  hard  to  tell,  dear,  but  the 
way  is  so  clear  to  me  I  want  you  to  see  it  too.  I  am 
going  West  soon,  to  be  with  the  man  I  love.  "We  shall 
have  a  home  together,  a  real  home,  in  the  hills  of  Cali- 
fornia. Life  is  simpler  and  freer  there  than  in  the 
East.  Father  is  to  go  with  us,  and  Anastasia, — you 
haven't  forgotten  Anastasia?  Constance  will  be  better 
for  the  change,  she  is  strong  and  Well  now ;  but  I  must  go 
back,  so  you  will  understand. 

"I  did  not  meet  him  until  I  had  been  out  there  a  year. 
At  first  I  didn't  want  to  see  anyone,  I  was  so  tired!  I 
was  thankful  just  to  sit  in  the  sunshine  and  try  not  to 
think.  Constance  was  better  from  the  day  we  arrived. 
Anastasia  took  all  the  care  of  her  and  of  Father,  and 
me  besides,  so  I  could  rest.  California  seemed  to  go  to 
her  head,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without 
her,  she  was  so  cheery  and  dear.  I  was  dreadfully 
afraid  Father  would  be  homesick,  but  he  instantly  be- 
took himself  to  the  Public  Library.  He  was  greatly 
disturbed  about  the  books  they  had,  or  rather  had  not. 
He  made  so  many  demands  they  couldn't  meet,  that  they 
put  him  on  the  Board  of  Trustees,  and  after  that  he  did 
all  the  Work  and  was  perfectly  happy.  It's  a  wonder- 
ful library  now,  he  made  them  burn  up  most  of  the 
books.  We  had  a  tiny  bungalow  with  flowers, — It  seemed 
like  heaven.  At  first,  when  I  used  to  cry  all  night,  the 
beauty  just  mocked  me,  I  hated  it,  but  after  a  while  the 
dreadful  feeling  passed  and  then  I  met  him, — the  man 
I  love.  That  was  six  months  ago.  It  did  not  take  us 
very  long  to  realise  that  we  meant  a  great  deal  to  each 

346 


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other.  Oh,  Eileen,  it  was  so  wonderful  to  begin  to  live 
again,  to  see  all  the  beauty,  to  be  part  of  it,  but  it  all 
seemed  so  hopeless!  There  was  no  possibility  of  a  di- 
vorce. Father  made  inquiries, — the  lawyers  said  there 
was  no  chance,  especially  now  that  Gus  had  been  pro- 
nounced incurable.  Isn't  that  strange?  They  said  if 
I  could  prove  a  charge  of  cruelty  before  the  trouble 
came  on,  'when  my  husband  was  quite  himself,'  it 
m!ight  be  obtained  on  that  ground.  I  almost  laughed. 
Poor  Gus!  always  so  tender  and  loving  when  he  was 
'himself!  What  a  hideous  law!  Perhaps  you  did  not 
know  that  the  doctors  think  he  cannot  get  well?  He 
has  to  have  the  morphine  still,  they  were  afraid  to  stop 
it.  But  even  if  he  should,  what  difference  could  it  make  ? 
Long  ago  the  Gus  I  loved  died, — killed,  murdered  by 
that  horrible  morphine.  Oh  Eileen,  I  wonder  if  anyone 
on  earth  can  imagine  what  it  is  to  watch  the  slow  chang- 
ing, the  daily  corruption  in  the  person  you  love  best  on 
earth.  Death  must  be  merciful  compared  to  it.  I  can 
speak  of  it  now  calmly;  it  has  passed,  but  I  am  a 
different  person,  I  feel  infinitely  sorry  for  him,  but  my 
love  is  dead.  Even  if  he  should  recover  mentally,  we 
could  not  come  together,  we  could  not.  His  body  is 
alive,  but  he  is  dead;  it  would  be  impossible, — terrible 
beyond  words  for  us  to  be  together.  I  never  knew  what 
that  word  'alien'  meant.  He  is  'alien,' — to  everyone, 
most  of  all  to  me.  I  used  to  wonder  if  he  cared  for 
anyone  on  earth.  He  seemed  as  if  turned  to  stone  and 
yet  there  were  times  when  he  turned  to  me, — when  all 
the  old  love  came  back  and  we  were  happy  and  had  hope 
for  the  future.  Then,  suddenly,  he  would  be  aloof, 
apart, — putting  me  away.  I  could  not  reach  him, — 
could  not  get  him  to  talk  to  me.  But  that  is  all  in  the 
past.     I  want  to  tell  you  of  the  future. 

"Have  you  ever  been  on  the  sea  in  a  great  storm? 
You  go  out  on  deck  and  everything  is  black,  the  wind 

347 


DRIFT 

is  loud  and  terrifying,  the  ship  seems  like  a  little  bit 
of  a  tiny  thing  that  the  storm  wants  to  destroy.  Then, 
after  yon  have  somehow  lived  through  a  space  of  time, 
you  don't  know  how,  but  you  have,  you  open  your  eyes 
and  the  sea  is  quiet  and  blue  and  beautiful  and  there  is 
the  shore  and  green  trees  and  hills  and  sweet  smells  of 
earth ;  and  when  you  have  reached  the  blessed  haven  of 
the  land,  you  remember  the  storm  and  you  are  more 
thankful  and  more  content  because  of  it.  Well,  I  have 
reached  my  haven.  Thank  God  for  it!  It  is  such  a 
blessed  one.  We  wish  we  could  be  married, — the  world 
makes  it  hard  for  people  who  are  not.  I  would  not  be 
troubled  were  it  not  for  Constance ;  but  I  have  thought 
it  all  out.  I  have  a  right  to  do  this,  I  shall  be  a  better 
mother  to  her  because  of  my  happiness.  I  cannot  live 
alone  now,  when  I  love  him.  It  is  going  to  be  incredibly 
difficult  to  plan  our  lives  in  defiance  of  tradition  and 
age-old  custom,  but  we  want  each  other  and  it  is  the 
only  way.  Do  these  seem  to  you  wild  words?  Perhaps 
they  are,  but  they  are  the  result  of  long,  long  talks  to- 
gether and  much  thinking.  We  both  believe  this  is  the 
right  thing  to  do. 

"I  have  read  this  letter  over.  I  haven't  told  you  the 
name  of  the  man  who  has  brought  me  such  great  joy, — 
the  name  of  the  man  I  love.  It  is  hard  to  tell  you.  It 
is  Robert  Thorne.  I  met  him  once,  long  ago,  at  your 
house,  do  you  remember?  I  thought  him  very  splendid 
looking  and  fine  and  big.  I  was  looking  in  the  window  of 
a  bookstore  one  day  and  I  heard  somebody  say,  'Why, 
it's  Mrs.  Lee!'  and  there  he  was.  I  have  wanted  to 
write  to  you,  but  something  has  held  me  back.  When  I 
came  home  a  month  ago,  we  said  good-bye  without  know- 
ing if  we  were  ever  to  see  each  other  again.  It  was  only 
two  weeks  ago  I  wrote  to  him  that  the  lawyers  here 
said  there  was  no  use  making  any  attempt  to  get  a  di- 
vorce unless  the  law  was  changed.     They  said  the  fact 

348 


DRIFT 

that  I  had  'forgiven'  Gus  and  lived  with  him  as  his 
wife  after  I  knew  about  the  morphia  would  take  away 
that  'ground  for  complaint. '  Oh  Eileen,  did  you  ever 
hear  of  anything  so  preposterous?  I  had  a  letter  from 
Gus's  mother,  begging  me  to  do  nothing  in  regard  to  a 
divorce ;  she  feared  the  effect  on  Gus  if  I  should.  Robert 
came  on  at  once  after  receiving  my  letter.  We  knew 
when  we  met  that  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  this. 

"He  has  told  me  that  he  knew  you,  that  he  loved  you 
and  asked  you  to  marry  him  once  long  ago,  and  again 
when  he  came  to  New  York  that  time.  He  says  you  did 
not  love  him  enough,  but  I  do,  oh  I  do,  and  now  he  turns 
to  me  for  happiness  and  I  can  give  it  to  him !  The  world 
is  very  beautiful. 

1 '  I  love  you,  dear.    Write  to  me  very  soon.    Helen. 

"P.  S. — Even  with  this  long  letter,  I  think  there  are 
one  or  two  things  more  you  will  want  to  know.  Don't 
think  I  am  unaware  of  what  an  incredible  thing,  as  it 
must  seem  to  you,  I  am  doing.  Because  I  am  happy  does 
not  mean  that  I  do  not  know  all  the  pain  and  difficulty 
there  is  going  to  be.  Robert  has  a  ranch,  you  know, 
where  he  used  to  live.  It  is  about  thirty  miles  from  Los 
Angeles,  such  a  paradise !  There  is  a  big  house  and  we 
shall  live  there  by  ourselves,  quietly,  out  of  the  world, — 
oh  so  gladly,  out  of  the  world !  The  world  seems  very 
little  compared  with  reality.  We  have  come  to  see  that 
this  is  the  only  thing  to  do  and  Father  sees  it  too.  Hte  is 
to  be  with  us,  you  know.  His  library  is  to  be  installed  as 
nearly  as  possible  as  it  is  here.  Robert  will  be  good  to 
him ;  he  admires  him  greatly.  I  could  not  have  decided 
as  I  have  if  Father  had  not  understood.  When  we  told 
him  he  was  at  first  greatly  troubled  on  Constance's  ac- 
count, but  he  has  come  to  see  that,  strange  as  her  position 
will  be,  she  will  be  happier.  I  have  a  feeling  that  be- 
cause what  we  are  doing  is  really  right,  people  will  see ; 
they  will  not  visit  disapproval  on  a  little  child.    Father 

349 


DRIFT 

says  '  Marriage  customs  have  gone  through  many 
changes ;  there  are  few  studies  more  interesting  than  to 
follow  the  evolution  of  this  rite.  In  some  countries, 
ours  for  instance,  marriage  is  considered  to  have  some- 
thing of  divine  significance.  This  is  particularly  hard 
to  explain  when  you  consider  the  reasons  which  led  to  iVs 
institution.'  Dear  Father!  He  wants  me  to  be  happy 
and  he  knows  this  is  the  only  way.  Have  I  made  it  clear, 
dear,  dear  friend?    I  am  so  happy  !" 

Eileen  laid  down  the  letter.  So !  It  was  Robert  Thorne 
who  had  made  Helen  happy — Robert  Thorne. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

WHILE  Helen  was  writing  her  letter,  her  father  was 
absent  from  home.  He  would  be  in  New  York 
most  of  the  day,  he  said,  there  were  a  number  of  mat- 
ters to  be  arranged;  it  was  a  serious  thing  moving  a 
library,  a  good  many  books  might  be  safely  discarded, 
others  were  needed  and  California  was  a  long  way  off. 

The  movements  of  Josiah  Tucker  that  day  were  never 
known.  When  he  died,  almost  his  last  thought  was  one 
of  satisfaction  that  this  was  so.  He  went  to  New  York 
and  took  another  train  out  of  the  city  to  the  place  where 
Augustus  Lee  was  confined.  It  was  a  small  sanatorium 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  'Josiah  knew  that  the 
patients  who  were  well  enough  were  allowed  such  liberty 
as  was  compatible  with  the  treatment  of  their  trouble; 
knew  too  that  Augustus  was  fond  of  walking  and  was 
allowed  to  go  about  alone.  Since  Helen  had  told  him 
of  her  plans,  he  had  been  a  number  of  times  to  the 
town  and  wandered  where  he  thought  Augustus  might 
be  found,  but  up  to  now  had  not  succeeded  in  seeing  him. 
He  did  not  wish  to  announce  himself  at  the  sanatorium. 

Today,  after  about  an  hour,  he  saw  Augustus  walking 
towards  him.  There  was  no  one  near.  He  approached 
him  with  a  word  of  greeting,  afraid  at  first  that  he 
might  not  be  recognised,  but  Augustus  looked  up  with 

351 


DRIFT 

something  of  his  old  grace  and  a  smile  of  greeting  as 
he  held  out  his  hand. 

Josiah  Tucker  was  disturbed  by  the  change  in  him. 
He  could  not  tell  at  first  what  it  was.  He  did  not  look 
ill,  on  the  contrary  he  looked  in  good  health.  What  was 
it  about  him  that  was  so  strange?  It  was  as  if — ah,  he 
had  it  now,- — it  was  like  the  men  changed  into  beasts 
of  the  old  tale ;  the  man  was  gone, — the  soul,  the  spirit. 
The  living  flesh  was  there, — what  inhabited  it?  Josiah 
did  not  know.    He  would  find  out  today. 

Their  colloquy  was  brief,  their  words  low.  They 
clasped  hands  and  parted  silently,  with  eyes  looking 
straight  into  each  other's. 

Josiah  found  his  way  back  to  the  station;  Augustus 
Lee,  with  bent  head,  walked  back  to  the  sanatorium, 
where  he  had  been  "  committed. ' ' 

They  brought  the  evening  paper  to  Eileen  as  she  sat 
with  Helen's  letter  in  her  hand.  The  servant  laid  it 
on  the  table  beside  her,  lighted  the  lamp,  mended  the 
fire,  pulled  down  the  shades  and  went  away.  She  was 
sorry  when  he  was  gone,  she  had  meant  to  speak  to  him, 
to  break  the  silence.  She  held  Helen's  letter  over  the 
fire.  When  it  caught,  she  dropped  it  on  to  the  flames, 
watching  it  burn  and  then  turn  black.  The  last  words 
she  saw  were,  UI  am  so  happy." 

She  picked  up  the  paper  and  read — 

Suicide  of  the  Talented  Young  Architect,  Augustus  Lee, 

Until  Recently  Head  of  the  Designing  Department 

In  the  Well  Known  Firm  of  Brewster  &  Knoll. 

The  notice  stated  that  Mr.  Lee  had  not  been  Well  for 
some  months.  He  had  suffered  a  nervous  breakdown, 
brought  on  from  over-work  and  was,  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  in  a  private  sanatorium.  "The  act  of  taking 
his  own  life  was  a  great  shock  to  the  authorities  at  the 

352 


DRIFT 

sanatorium,  where  he  was  warmly  liked.  During  the 
last  fortnight  he  had  shown  improvement  and  hopes 
were  entertained  for  his  ultimate  recovery.  He  took  a 
long  walk  on  the  afternoon  of  his  death  and  it  is  thought 
became  despondent  over  his  condition.  Enquiry  at  the 
office  of  Brewster  &  Knoll  brought  the  comment  from 
Mr.  Brewster  that  young  Mr.  Lee  was  a  man  of  dis- 
tinct ability.  'The  Uptown  Club  must  be  credited  to 
him/  said  Mr.  Brewster.  'The  plans  were  made  in  our 
office,  but  the  work  is  practically  his.'  Mr.  Lee  leaves 
a  widow  and  one  child,  a  daughter  five  years  of  age." 

Eileen  read  the  notice  over  again. 

So !  Augustus  Lee  was  dead, — he  had  killed  himself. 
Helen  was  free,  then,  to  marry  Robert  Thorne.  All  the 
"difficulty"  of  which  she  had  spoken  was  removed. 
Poor  Gus!  How  handsome  and  gay  he  had  been  that 
afternoon,  long  ago,  when  Mr.  Crockett  had  called  him 
a  faun !  How  much  in  love  they  were,  and  then  after- 
wards, what  pain!  She  remembered  how,  after  they 
had  gone  that  day  she  had  heard  the  newsboys  calling 
"Extry!  Extry!  All  about  the  suicide  for  love!"  how 
little  she  knew  then  what  would  be  the  outcome ;  she  had 
been  envious  of  their  joy.  Helen  had  been  radiant;  on 
fire  and  shining  with  a  great,  beautiful,  burning  flame ! 
Then  later, — Eileen  remembered  her  face  as  she  and 
Gus  stood  together  after  the  wedding  at  the  cottage 
and  Helen's  letter  a  few  days  after,  dated,  "From  the 
Inn  in  the  Deep,  Deep  Wood,"  where  they  had  gone  for 
love  and  each  other.  Yes,  in  spite  of  it  all  Helen  had 
had  great  riches,  and  now — now — her  eyes  would  hold 
again  their  shining  look  of  inner  joy  because  Robert 
Thorne  loved  her,  because  they  would  come  together. 
The  words  of  the  poem  that  had  haunted  her  came  to 
her  mind,  "My  flesh  leapt  to  your  touch  with  the  fierce- 
ness you  called" — was  she  to  be  tormented  always  with 
the  vision  the  words  evoked? 

353 


DRIFT 

Her  thoughts  turned  to  Margaret,  Margaret  who 
knew  what  the  poem  meant;  she  saw  her  smiling  in  the 
doorway,  calm,  confident.  John  was  with  her  now, 
talking  low  and  intimately.  They  were  planning  to- 
gether what  they  should  do,  how  they  should  proceed, 
so  as  to  spare  her,  John's  wife. — She  put  her  hand  over 
her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  an  actual  thing.  She  won- 
dered how  Gus  had  done  what  he  had  done.  Upstairs 
in  the  drawer  of  the  desk  in  her  room  was  a  small  pistol, 
with  a  handle  of  mother-of-pearl.  John  had  given  it 
to  her  half  in  joke  and  taught  her  to  use  it  because 
she  had  said  that  she  was  frightened  when  he  went  to 
the  factory  and  she  was  alone  at  night.  She  would 
always  be  alone  now,  always  alone,  day  and  night. 

With  set  face  she  sat  staring  into  the  fire.  Gradually 
the  flames  died  to  flickering  tongues  that  leaped  up  now 
and  then,  but  gave  no  light  or  warmth.  Slowly  the  red 
coals  grew  duller ;  the  grey  of  the  ashes  overspread  them, 
crept  over  them  until  all  the  glow  was  gone ;  there  was 
nothing  left  but  grey.  Now  and  then  a  faint  flicker  of 
the  fire  that  had  danced  so  brightly  an  hour  before 
curled  up  over  a  charred  piece  of  wood,  made  a  little 
crackling  sound  and  went  out.  It  was  very  cold.  If  she 
were  found  dead,  John  would  be  free  to  marry  Mar- 
garet— Margaret  who  had  arranged  that  room  with  the 
yellow  roses  around  the  top  and  the  chintz!  He  would 
marry  her  and  they  would  have  a  little  cottage  some- 
where in  the  country  with  pink  roses  on  the  wall  paper 
and  babies,  more  babies, — John  would  have  his  wish. 
But  what  of  his  thoughts?  Would  they  not  turn  to  the 
woman  whom  he  had  worshipped  with  such  an  adoring 
love,  who  had  left  him  lonely  and  who  had  died  by  the 
aid  of  the  little  pretty  thing  he  had  given  her,  taught  her 
how  to  use ;  died  by  her  own  hand  so  that  he  might  be 
free — free  to  pursue  the  course  he  thought  would  lead 
to  happiness? 

354 


DRIFT 

She  arose  and  went  to  the  desk  and  wrote — 

Midnight,  October  8. 
" Dear  John:    I  have  thought  it  all  out.    This  is  the 
only  thing  I  can  do  to  serve  you.    Please  do  not  grieve ; 
I  want  you  to  be  happy, — you  and  Margaret.     I  give 
you  to  her.  Eileen.' ' 

She  sealed  and  addressed  the  letter,  put  it  on  the  top 
of  the  desk  and  crept  upstairs. 

As  dawn  broke,  a  figure  slipped  into  the  room,  making 
no  sound ;  a  tall  figure  wrapped  in  soft  draperies,  with 
long,  dark  hair  and  oblique  eyes.  The  figure  stopped 
and  looked  about,  then  approached  the  desk  where  a 
white  envelope  gleamed  faintly  through  the  grey  light, 
took  it  from  its  place,  carried  it  to  the  fireplace  and 
raking  back  the  ashes  on  the  hearth,  burnt  it  on  the 
coals;  then,  looking  about  again,  stole  upstairs  into  a 
soft  and  comfortable  bed.  The  pillow  was  wet  with  un- 
availing tears. 


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